A Perfect Cage
by Hriviel
Summary: What if Christine Daaé wasn't a beautiful, perfect ingénue? What if she also had a physical flaw from birth? Will this spark a love between two aching souls trapped in imperfect cages? A retelling of ALW!STAGE canon, EC, no Raoul bashing.
1. Prologue

_**A PERFECT CAGE**_

by Hríviel

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**Synopsis:** _What if Christine Daaé _wasn't_ a beautiful, perfect ingénue? What if _she_ had a physical flaw from birth? Not a beautiful chorus girl any longer, she is now a lonely, disabled backstage seamstress. Will this change spark a love between two aching souls trapped in imperfect cages? A retelling of ALW!STAGE canon, E/C, no Raoul-bashing._

**Disclaimer:** _Phantom_ _of the Opera_ and all its various incarnations (Leroux, Kay, ALW, Yeston/Kopit, various film adaptations, etc…) are not mine. I'm just borrowing them, and I shall put them back when I'm finished. You will also see many allusions to other musicals I have enjoyed, such as the works of Stephen Sondheim, _Rent, Wicked_, and others. The lullaby at the end of this chapter is from the charming 1943 film adaptation.

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_PROLOGUE_

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**I remember my mother. **

She was a dancer. I can recall watching her move, like in a dream. When she turned in a swift pirouette, her hair—as fine and pale as corn silk—swirled, and her long legs were informed by the rhythm of pure grace. Lissome arms arched, reaching for Heaven... It's only a brief, vague flash, a hazy image of beauty and light, a fleeting cloud, buried under heaps of memory. She had danced to Papa's music. That sound, those harmonies, I am grateful to have more ample memories of. But I had always wanted to dance to Papa's music, as well. _I_ wanted to be the one twirling in time with the melody.

That was never to be.

I was born half lame. It took a very long time for me to learn how to crawl as an infant, and even longer to walk as a toddler. As a child, I found that there were times when my legs would weaken until I could no longer stand. My knees and ankles would simply give out, and Papa had to pick me up and carry me. Each time it happened in public, utter humiliation washed over me, and I would cry into Papa's warm, comforting shoulder.

The doctors gave me braces.

Ugly, cold metal things they were, that wrapped around my ankle and my lower legs. I can always feel their ghosts digging into my skin, sharp and cold as ice. Doctor Saint-Pierre also gave me my first cane, a short little staff of sturdy wood with a worn brass handle, just the right size for a girl of four winters. It helped with my limp, and my steps were easier. But the braces were glaring as they sat mockingly over my black stockings. I earned plenty of unabashed stares wherever Papa and I travelled. I could pretend to ignore them, and they need not know that the sting of humiliation never ameliorated.

Three years after Mama died, Papa and I lived for one season at a little house by the sea in Perros-Guirec, on the northwest tip of France. The simple white frame house itself was a palace to my childish senses. It was very small, merely a summer cabin, but after years of life as a nomad, sleeping in hay-filled barns and beneath the stars, we loved it. There was a stark loft beneath the peaked roof that was warm and dark, save for a tiny semicircular storm window. That attic crawl-space was the site of many a tea party and picnic I shared with my only doll, Angélique.

One afternoon I sat contentedly on Papa's shoulders as he walked the length of the sandy beach. We were singing together merrily. Despite my condition and the loss of Mama, my life at that point was relatively happy; though we were destitute together, my father was my constant protector and friend. Papa had told me my voice was a divine gift, and gave me persistent, gentle lessons, teaching me songs of his own composition—songs from his fantastic stories. He began to hum and bounce me playfully where I sat behind his neck, clutching his hands with my small ones. This song I knew well; it was the beginning of the tale of Little Lotte:

_Little Lotte let her mind wander... She thought of everything and nothing...__  
She missed her mama and loved her father ... He always thought that she was something;  
Little Lotte wore her best red shoes ... and yet she couldn't dance__—  
So Papa said, _One day, my dear, you'll be the diva of all France!

I giggled and stretched out my arms in the soft evening air. I knew the rest of the story well; I was about to ask him to sing the verse where Petite Lotte first heard the Angel of Music, my favourite part.

My scarlet silk-wool scarf flapped in the gusty sea breeze. It was Mama's, the only thing beside her plain gold wedding ring that we had not pawned to rent the house we lived in. The gulls overhead were calling and wheeling in the glowing orange sky. The sun was idly sliding off to the west. I opened my lips to sing the next verse—

—And the fair-weather beach wind snatched at Mama's scarf and carried it to the sea.

I squeezed fistfuls of Papa's longish wavy dark hair and let out a choked cry of dismay. But before he could pacify me, put me down, and go in after it, there was a flash of movement, just down the beach.

A fair boy, about my own age, skipped off down the sand and into the waves. An older lady, his black-clad governess, was shouting and wringing her hands. As I watched, he swam out with effort, fetched the scarf floating lazily on a swell, and made his way back, dripping unceremoniously.

"Here you are, mademoiselle," he said, offering a charming smile and my soaked scarf. Then, his bright blue eyes, bright as the summer sky, dropped down and focused on my braces. His mouth sagged open. Insensitively as only a child can be, he asked, "What's wrong with your legs?"

I answered with a bitter scowl and by sticking my tongue out at him.

And from that day forward, for those few months under the Breton sun, Raoul de Chagny was my only playmate and dearest friend.

**Alas that those idyllic days could not last. **Around the time Raoul entered my life, Papa grew ill. Looking back now, I realise that Raoul had just returned from a long trip to the New World; he had not contracted anything, but he may have been carrying a strain of disease that Papa's health could not have tolerated. I don't blame my old friend. Not at all.

My father passed away in a charity hospital in a banlieue of Paris. It was a terrible blow to my spirit, which sank like lead into a dark pool of mourning. I can still see the single candle that illuminated Papa's ashen and painfully-thin face as he offered me a weak smile. He gave me his treasured violin, Mama's scarf and wedding ring, and the promise that I would hear the Angel of Music one day. An hour, then a day, then nearly a week had passed in a blur, and I was suddenly standing at the gate of a poor Parisian orphanage, my one small suitcase in hand.

"Christine Daaé, daughter of Gustave and Charlotte Daaé," read the Mother Superior of Notre Dame des Fleuves Orphanage and Infirmary. She eyed the registration forms, no doubt scrutinizing my parents' artistic occupations and poor stations in life.

I was given a cot in a room lined with identical cots. There were about a dozen other orphans that lived at Notre Dame while I was there. The other half of the building functioned as a small children's hospital, tended by solemn nurses dressed in white. Soeur Vallier, who was taking me for a fitting of new braces, led me down the corridor. All the doors were open and dimly-lit, save one. It was firmly shut, with a brass plaque that read unfeelingly, "Quarantine."

"Who lives in that room?" I asked curiously. I shrunk back when my question was met with dark glares from some children in the hall, and fearful twitters from others.

Nurse Vallier answered me quietly. "Sophie Lachance lives there, Christine. She's ... very ill, my child." The other children backed away in herds as she opened the door to tend the sick ward.

"Go on, look at her!" urged a boy in jeering tone.

I looked. God help me, I looked. My breath caught in my chest and my mouth dropped open. I was thankful that she was asleep; unable to see the expression of horror that swept over my face. _Mon Dieu..._

"How bad is it?" asked a wide-eyed girl in a whisper.

I shook my head vehemently, muted by emotions.

"She's a monster!" said a boy matter-of-factly.

I whirled on him, wobbling a bit to maintain my balance. A five-year-old disease-ravaged little girl was no monster! She was as human he was, who brandished a broken arm in a splint. I gasped, and wanted very badly to tell him so, but my will to speak up for myself vanished in a cold realization.

I was a hypocrite; she was just like me, an imperfect person. Yet I had gawked with the rest. That moment, I promised myself I would never treat another person like that.

**Time passed quietly. **I remained in the orphanage, withering under the confinement of the sisters like a stifled bud. I found myself a niche in the small library, my mind devouring the literature voraciously, like a starving wretch. Most were religious texts, but I found several nearly-hidden volumes from the outside world, novels, collections of tales, essays, and poetry. I treasured them all. During lessons, while instructed to copy a passage from the Bible, I would draw faces, figures, and flowers instead. If I found a blank scrap of paper and a stub of charcoal, I drew. However, the cruel children often found my tiny portfolio and hid or destroyed it.

Every year, I prayed fervently in the chapel for the Angel of Music to manifest to me. I beseeched God and my father humbly. Every year, neither unearthly voice nor celestial vision visited me. Every year, I sang less and less. I hid my father's old violin, and shut away his fantasy tales, our lullabies… By my teenage years, I was silent and gloomy, one without hope.

At the age of fifteen, all orphans at Notre Dame des Fleuves were evicted. Some were adopted into families by the by, but the majority of us received a rudimentary education, and training for a lifetime of hard servitude. With little physical strength or coordination to recommend me, I utilized my finer crafting skills in sewing. I was quiet, unobtrusive, and exacting in my work. And due to that (or perhaps out of pity), the sisters let me stay beneath their humble roof for four more years, working in the kitchen, taking the mending in, and tending the laundry.

At nineteen, I was informed that they could no longer support me, despite my fine services and hard work. But in recognition of this, they found a post for me in a bourgeoisie home near the epicentre of Paris. I was instinctively frightened at the thought of being turned out of the gates, utterly alone and unprepared in the world. I swallowed hard, and went to the trunk that lay at the foot of my cot. I packed my few belongings¾plain clothing, Mama's wedding ring and scarf, Papa's violin, my aged rag doll, and little else. I did not look back at the orphanage as I boarded the cabriolet. Once in motion, I peered around the edge of the calash as the core of Paris opened to my wondering eyes. There was such a magnificent beauty to the orderly architecture that I could simply not believe the citizens went to and fro with barely an upward glance.

My destination was a wealthy town-house not far from the Madeleine. The light carriage rolled easily down the Boulevard des Italiens as the warm midmorning sun shimmered in the air.

"Driver," I said suddenly and shyly, "What is that establishment to our right?"

"That?" He briefly turned in to the direction I had indicated. "That is the Opéra, mademoiselle."

"Will you stop, please, sir?" My voice was quivering. An idea had rapidly sprung to life and was now running wild; with such costumes and clothing to maintain, surely such a grand theatre could use one more seamstress…

Bearing my one suitcase, I approached the imposing, colonnaded baroque façade of the Palais Garnier. It looked golden and promising, opulent and yet somehow fatuous. I felt a stab of fear, the familiar uncomfortable rush of anxiety. The rational part of my mind protested indignantly; it insisted that there was no chance a position was open, nor that my skills were nearly refined enough for a post there.

But my feet were stubbornly guiding me towards the entrance of the building. I diffidently approached the red-uniformed, moustachioed man stationed at the box office, forcing what I hoped was a confident smile onto my lips.

"May I speak to the management, please?"

"Are you looking for a refund, mam'selle?" he replied neutrally.

"No," I said, taken aback.

"Then I'm afraid the management is quite busy. Perhaps you could try contacting them at a later date for an appointment."

"Oh …" I prayed that I could swallow the lump of unshed tears in my throat and maintain a semblance of dignity. "Thank you."

"Would you care to leave your name and address?"

I leaped for the opportunity like a drowning woman reaching for a hand. "My name is Christine Charlotte Daaé, and I will be residing at—"

"Mademoiselle!" a stern woman's voice called from an ajar door. I started, and turned.

It was a slender, upright woman; not young, but not old, with a tight coil of plaited black hair and a severe black dress. As she drew nearer, I could make out the sharp features defined in pale, powdered skin. She also bore a cane, but she did not use it as I did, as evidenced by her fluid, graceful gait.

"Mademoiselle," she greeted with a cool graciousness marked by a certain suppressed excitement. "You are Christine Daaé?"

"_Oui_, Madame," I said deferentially, lowering my glance with respect. "Do you know of me …?"

"I am Marie-Louise Giry, the ballet mistress. But years ago, I was merely another young ballerina—and the leader of my row was a Mademoiselle Charlotte Landry."

"You knew my mother!" I gasped.

"Yes, I knew her. She and I were great friends, even unto our parting when she abandoned the stage for street musician." There was unspoken warmth in this last phase that instantly made me feel more at ease. I gave a tentative smile just as she asked me suddenly, "What do you do? Are you here to audition for the chorus?"

"Singing?" I echoed uneasily. "No, Madame, I am a seamstress."

If she was surprised, she concealed it well. "_Alors_, Mademoiselle, I myself can attest to the need of a new pair of hands around the opera house, especially those skilled with the needle. Come, and I'll show you around."

**It took roughly a week to sort out my situation. **The Leblanc family was informed that their new maid had found a different workplace; the opera house management, Messieurs Poligny and Lefevre, were notified of a new name on their payroll. I was given to the guidance of Madame Valérius, and immediately took up work on costume development and refurbishing.

I made a few work acquaintances at the opera house, but in the end, my monumental shyness prevented any semblance of real friendship. All save one …

Madame Giry's effervescent daughter, Marguax—dubbed Meg—immediately attached herself to me. Between practise, rehearsals, fittings, outings, and all other activities of the _corps de ballet_, she visited me in the sewing rooms, speaking kindly and eagerly to me.

"_Salut_, Christine!" she would sing out as she burst through the door, out of breath, eyes bright. "What are you working on? Oh, it's so pretty! What opera is it from? Who shall wear it?" And, as the days passed, we grew close as real sisters.

"Sing a song for me, Christine," Meg urged playfully one morning at the very end of March. "Please?"

"How did you know I—" I paused, blushing.

"Maman told me this morning. Oh, please? I bet you have a good voice."

"I haven't sung in years, Meg," I sighed regretfully, barely glancing up from mending my favourite black cotton skirt. "I suspect I never could."

Meg persisted ruthlessly and innocently. Finally, I relented, "What would you like to hear?"

Meg jumped up from her seat and grinned. "Come on!"

"What?" Terror seized me by the chest when she began to lead me to the stage. She pulled me gently by the wrist to the orchestra pit.

"Meg!" I protested feebly. "Surely we shall be caught!"

"Christine," she responded patiently, "No one is here at this hour. No one will hear you but I. Come, let's find a song for you."

I doubtfully examined the opera scores that littered the orchestra pit. Meyerbeer, Mozart, Puccini … Then, I spotted a worn copy of one of my favourites, Charles Gounod's _Faust_. I searched the pages for the jubilant Jewel Song, but this was Act Five only. I settled on Marguerite's climactic supplication to the angels.

"Are you ready?" Meg asked me excitedly.

I drew a deep breath and nodded slowly. As Meg found the guiding chords, I found myself thinking back to my father, buried beneath the despair and the years of silence …

Then … I found my voice.

_Mon Dieu, protégez-moi,  
__Mon Dieu, je vous implore:__  
Anges purs, anges radieux!__  
Portez mon âme au sein des cieux!__  
Dieu juste, à toi, je m'abandonne,__  
Dieu bon, je suis à toi, pardonne!__  
Anges purs, anges radieux!  
__Portez mon âme au sein des cieux!__  
Anges purs, anges radieux!  
Portez mon âme au sein des cieux!_

I gasped for breath after the final high note, my throat raw. The effort was draining, but at the same time, I felt lighter, like a spun-glass ornament.

"Christine Daaé, your voice … is so … _beautiful_," Meg said haltingly, her face astonished. "Why aren't you a prima donna?"

I struggled to think of a witty, self-deprecating scoff. But as my bitterness rose, I could only shrug helplessly.

"I must go, Meg; I'm sorry," I muttered as I pushed past her and limped away. Down in the chapel, I bowed my head, and pressed my palms together.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven …" I began dutifully, then abruptly turned my prayers in another direction, speaking candidly as if my father's spirit could hear me. "Papa, I sang tonight for the first time since …" Well over a decade's worth of grief swelled up in my chest, and I wept like a lost child. "Oh, Papa, why? Why did you have to leave me? I've never felt so alone … even with all these people around me. You promised me I wouldn't be alone, that you would send the Angel of Music to me … but you lied, didn't you? Why did you have to lie to me?"

But there was no reply, of course; and I buried my face in my hands, and bent until my wrists rested on my knees.

At first, I thought it was simply my imagination, a faint echo of memory and pointless wishing. Yet I found that as I listened, there was music softly streaming in around me from everywhere. I sat up and turned my head this way and that. The painted walls, the stained-glass window, the floor, the ceiling, even the candles and portraits in front of me issued incredible music. It was a solo violin played with all the tenderness and brilliance I had always connected directly to my father. The music gripped my soul like two strong hands, and I began to sway gently to the rhythm. Then, an ethereal voice accompanied the next movement, singing softly:

_Hear those bells ringing, soft and low,__  
Ringing each through the twilight glow,__  
Calling to everyone,__  
Night has begun__  
To rend from your weary toil,__  
Day's work is done.__  
Hear them ring, while my love and I  
Drift and dream to the lullaby..._

The wonderful song faded into heartbreaking silence, and all I heard for several minutes was my own ragged breathing. Then, the voice spoke to me for the first time.

_I hear you, my child. _The voice resonated deep within my heart.

"Papa? Is that you?" I asked quaveringly.

_No._

"Then wh-who are you?"

_You know who I am. _

My heart pounded. It couldn't be true. I could barely murmur one tiny word: "Angel..."


	2. Overture

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OVERTURE

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_I was drowning. _

_It was the dream again. The one that came every once in a while, at least thrice a year. I had been standing in cool, shallow water that came up to my knees. Then without warning, my legs simply gave out from under me. I clawed wildly at the water, but it was so heavy and dark. And I couldn't feel the bottom. I was sinking, sinking slowly, and I couldn't breathe. The water was closing in over my head, and all went dark. And no one was there to save me. And then, I felt the horrid pressure building in my chest. My lungs screamed for the air that simply wasn't there. Everything closed in on me mercilessly. Tighter... tighter. My heart was going to burst..._

**I woke up gasping for breath.** For a moment I was deeply confused. Where was I? The barn hayloft, after Papa played at the fair? The house by the sea? My hard cot at Notre Dame des Fleuves? My humble flat, just down the street from the Opéra?

I blinked several times; I was in the workshop. After Madame Valérius, my apprentice mistress, retired, I was promoted to assistant seamstress, and given my own workspace. It was filled with unfinished costumes, metres of extra material, headless mannequins, numerous oil lamps, and my large table, where I had fallen asleep late last night. No one could move about in the chaotic space save myself. I glanced haphazardly at the huge full-length mirror on the wall, scowling at the wrinkled fabric imprints on my cheek. Strange thing, that mirror. It was something that did not belong in an isolated sewing room.

Aside from the red impressions on my cheek, my reflection was quite displeasing, as it always was. I was far from being a beautiful young woman. My coarse, unbearably-thick hair was the colour of slightly-wet sand, unruly and dull. It framed a sallow round face (currently dotted with reddened pimples twixt my brows, along my cheekbones, and on my chin) with a curiously-flat mushroom nose and small, wide-set eyes framed by sparse drooping lashes. The only thing I liked about my face was my lips, which were rather full and naturally tinted a dark pink. I was not slender, save for my long hands and feet. Not tall and willowy like a princess; I was much more cut out for the role of a plain, frumpy servant. I was ghostly pale, from spending so much time indoors, up late working on a costume and sleeping during the morning. My knees were covered in old and fresh bruises, and my hands were scarred copiously from multiple pinpricks and scissor cuts.

Someone was banging insistently on the closed door. "Christine Daaé! I know you're in there! Christine, _get up!_ Dress rehearsals are beginning in an hour and La Carlotta does not have her costume yet!"

It was Joséphine Rémy, my fellow assistant seamstress. And her voice was urgent and clearly annoyed. I blinked, and then was seized in a terrible fit of blind panic, accompanied by a racing ache down my stiff spine.

_The Queen Elissa gown! _I wasn't even halfway finished! I had fallen asleep here at the theatre while stitching up the alternating red and green velvet panels of the bodice. I groaned; La Carlotta would be furious, naturally. But that seemed to be her natural state whenever I was around. I ran my good left hand over the soft, exotic fabric studded with expensive jewels and ornate golden beading. It was such a waste. The diva wouldn't even look down at the magnificent piece. She never looked down, anyway.

Rushing behind my changing screen, I hurriedly dressed in a fresh, nondescript dress, and with a sigh, gathered my Medusa-like locks back in an unfashionable snood. I rummaged for a spare bottle of rose-water and amber, my signature scent for years, and hurriedly dabbed it at the nape of my neck. I tied an apron around my waist, and checked the pockets for an inventory of needles, pins, small shears, and thread. My presence was mandatory at dress rehearsals, to mind the rips and tears that would no doubt occur. I grabbed my cherry-varnished maple cane, and stood shakily. My hands were trembling as I waited, my heart beating time.

The voice seemed to come from the room itself, as always. From the ceiling, the floor, and the four walls. A soothing wordless singing that ended with, "Don't be nervous, Christine. Today you will reveal your true voice, and all of Paris will lay herself at your feet."

"But Angel—" I began to protest nervously.

"Remember to breathe." There was a smile in his voice, which now seemed to fill my head.

"I'll try," I replied uncertainly, but his tone was tugging at my confidence.

A warm chuckle bubbled up out of the bricks and behind my ears. "Good. Now off you go, my dear. Carlotta is about to begin screeching for her gown."

I grinned, and walked out the door—

—And nearly ploughed in Meg Giry, clad in her scanty slave girl costume. "Oh, Christine, Maman will _kill _me if I'm late for rehearsals!"

I laughed, "You mean 'late _again_,' Mademoiselle Meg."

"Always," she said, flashing me her angelic smile. Five years younger than myself, Meg had become both a best friend and a dear sister to me. She was now sixteen and vivacious; golden-haired and bright-eyed, slender and sweet-voiced.

"_Va va va! _Go on!" I teased, giving her a good-humoured shove toward the stage.

"I am!" Chuckling, she turned and dance-ran in that direction.

More slowly, struggling to carry the immense gown, I followed her path, occasionally greeting a fellow craftsperson already hard at work. The laundresses were frantically shaking out garments, the scene-shifters working to get the elaborate sets up, the plasterers were white as ghosts. The performers, as usual, ignored me. It didn't bother me. Most were mediocre singers and dancers, arrogant and egotistical. I belonged to the backstage world.

I waved to a mask-maker on the second level above me. She nodded, and cast me a smile.

I sighed as I knocked on the door of Carlotta Guidicelli's dressing-room. Her maid opened it, and gestured impatiently for me to enter.

"Vat took yew so long, leetle toad? Geeve me my gown!" The consummate Italian soprano, Carlotta was seated at her vanity, a fan being flopped in her direction by another servant, brushing her shining coppery hair to a higher lustre. She was a plump woman, no taller than I, with fiery eyes and an expressive mouth. As soon as she dropped her brush, a hairdresser quickly piled her curls up, and topped them with an elegant jewelled diadem.

My eyes downcast, I could still see her disdainful frown deepen as I muttered, "Terribly sorry, Signora, but the gown is still unfinished."

She roared like a dragon, but after a handful of threats and tears, she was calm enough to have it fitted in place by pins. It would be very easy to finish stitching the bodice later on.

Looking regal indeed, with garish makeup and over-the-top jewellery, Carlotta and her entourage paraded out of her dressing-room and down the corridor to the stage, where Monsieur Reyer was likely beside himself over the time.

The overture of _La Triomphe de Hannibal, _a new composition by Marc Chalumeau was just beginning. Carlotta's shrieking soprano rose in the gold and scarlet velvet auditorium. I grimaced at the sound, noticing several others do the same.

But just as Hannibal himself, the portly Italian consort of our reigning diva, Signor Ubaldo Fonta Piangi, entered, most of us became aware of casual voices interrupting the opera.

I paid little attention to Monsieur Lefèvre's announcement. So he was finally retiring. As long as the new management didn't endanger my occupation, I was satisfied.

The dance sequence began. I watched intently; even after all these years, ballet still fascinated me. The ballerinas moved with such a fluid grace, leaping off the ground in a _grand jeté_, a magnificent play of movement. Madame Giry expertly directed the girls in their provocative number. I wrinkled my nose as the new managers leered at the dancers. Right glad I was that I was not out there.

Carlotta was clearly furious at having lost the attention of Andre and Firmin to the blatantly seductive ballet. She squawked and threatened to leave. This neither saddened nor alarmed anyone. With each production, Signora Guidicelli made a few threats of departure. They beseeched her to stay and perform her role's main aria. The response was irritated.

During this interim, Georgette Belleterre approached me, pointing out where some of the soft velvety ropes of her dance skirt were coming loose. I gladly threaded my needle, and knelt to repair it.

Carlotta began her aria, solely performing for her own ego as the managers clung to her every note. I pinned the seam shut, careful not to nick Georgette's ivory skin.

Suddenly, a painted backdrop came crashing down from the flies. It fell to the floor, just behind Carlotta, pinning her down by the massive skirt of her costume. The ballet girls began twittering; I heard a cry of "He's here—the Ghost!" Georgette herself turned to see Joseph Buquet emerge from behind the set pieces.

"Mademoiselle," I hissed, forcing patience. "Please do not move while I finish this seam."

_Or I__'__ll jab your flawless skin with a pin_, I finished in my mind, with a sinister smile. When Carlotta stormed off, followed by her retinue and a flustered Piangi, Georgette twisted again. This time, I succumbed to my angry impulse.

"_Ouch!__"_

"I'm so sorry, Mademoiselle!" I exclaimed, feigning polite remorse.

"You should be," she whined. Then, she added nastily, under her breath, "Clumsy_ cripple_."

I made another stitch blindly. It shouldn't't have hurt so deeply, but it did. Maybe half a dozen more stitches, and her costume would be ready for opening night.

Madame Giry came forth with a black-rimmed note from the Phantom—a simple greeting to the new managers. And a casual mention of his expensive salary. This pricked at my curiosity; I had always wondered what a spirit would require of money.

I was almost finished tying off the new seam on Georgette's ornate gold waistband, when I heard, "Christine Daaé could sing it, Messieurs."

I froze like a hunted animal. The pins I had held in my teeth clattered to the floor. And I swear I could have heard them hit the stage with a tiny metallic sound.

I looked up to see everyone staring at me. I glared at Meg, who only gave me an encouraging smile. Most were shocked, but there were quite a few dismayed or grimly amused. Monsieur Andre spoke their thoughts out loud: "What? _A seamstress_? Don't be ridiculous! Isn't there anyone in the chorus who knows the role?"

I was surprised to hear Madame Giry speak up. "Let Mademoiselle Daaé sing, messieurs. She had been taking lessons from a great teacher."

"Who?" Andre glanced at me skeptically.

"I…I don't know, Monsieur." I lowered my eyes.

"Let her sing for you, Monsieur. She has been well taught."

"Andre, my nerves!"

"Don't _fret_, Firmin."

And this was the moment. I shut my eyes. I knew the Angel was watching, and I wanted to make him proud. I pushed away the scornful stares of the others, and concentrated on the two bars of the introduction on piano. _Remember to breathe, _he had whispered to me this morning. I opened my eyes, and drew a deep breath to sing.


	3. Think of Me

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* * *

_

_THINK OF ME_

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* * *

  
_

**I shifted anxiously** from one foot to the other in the wings, waiting for my Act Three cue in a daze. I still couldn't believe that I was starring in an opera! _I! _Christine Daaé, the shy secondary assistant seamstress. Acts I and II had run efficiently, perhaps more so than if they had been produced with our main stars. Carolus Garron, Signor Piangi's more nimble understudy, was about half the Italian's size, and had clambered up the mechanical elephant with ease.

There had been no time to re-tailor Carlotta's ample gown to my size. Using the insight into costumes and rapid construction that I had gained from years of experience, I devised a quick remedy. I found one of the spare slave-girl ballerina's costumes in my size, and temporarily attached Carlotta's intricate bell-like skirt over the gold waistband. Dressed like royalty, I stood taller and more erect. I even wore one of the lovely wigs from Harvé's workshop; he had personally placed the confection of perfect, shimmering brunette ringlets on my head, and pinned in the glittering tiara. I felt like I truly was a queen.

I had stared at my reflection in the mirror of Carlotta's dressing-room. The thick stage makeup hid every blemish and scar on my face. It also seemed to make my eyes look bigger, more luminous, and my cheekbones more contoured. I looked so different from the dull-eyed girl who woke up this morning with fabric wrinkles imprinted on her cheek.

Surely this was no plain and simple Christine! This had to be Elissa, noble queen of a fallen city, clad in exotic regalia, with long hair like coffee silk, curls of chocolate satin. I unclasped the braces on my legs, and kicked them away. These were vestiges of Christine, and did not belong to a royal. I quietly told the dresser, Catherine, to bring them back to my workshop, then fetched my cane from the corner where I had left it before the opera started. As I had walked back to the stage, a few of the craftspeople I was familiar with waved encouragingly.

The sweet, mid-tempo piano introduction to my aria began as I waited for my cue. I stood lightly in the wings, waiting… letting the music sweep me away like a tide …

_Think of me,__  
Think of me fondly,  
When we__'__ve said good-bye …_

Queen Elissa of Carthage emerged onstage. She was regal in bearing, and moved slowly with small, refined steps. The lilt in her pace was hardly noticeable, more melodic than anything else. Clad in an imperial gown of red, gold, and green, she bore in her hands the last gift Hannibal had bestowed upon her: a long, colourful scarf edged with fringe. In the brilliant lights shining down on her, the scarf seemed a veil. She held it before her, arms outstretched, mourning her love for the departed general. She trounced and twirled gracefully across the stage, while her voice, delicate and transparent as gossamer, and strong and rich as the earth, wove the song with elegant swoops and trills.

_Remember me,  
__Every so often,__  
Promise me  
You__'__ll try._

_On that day,__  
That not-so-distant day,__  
When you are far away and free;__  
If you ever find a moment,  
Spare a thought for me._

Elissa clutched the scarf close to her heart and brushed its softness against her face. She loved Hannibal, this she knew that she always would, but she had to let him go. He was helplessly in love with the war, and she simply knew that he couldn't stay with her. She gave up her chances of a life with him, clinging to the memory of their love. She had made her sacrifice.

_And though it__'__s clear,__  
Though it was always clear,__  
That this was never meant to be,__  
If you happen to remember,  
Stop and think of me._

_Think of August, when the world was green;  
Don__'__t think about the way things might have been.__  
Think of me,__  
Think of me waking, silent and resigned;__  
Imagine me  
Trying too hard to put you from my mind._

_Think of me, please say you'll think of me,__  
Whatever else you choose to do;  
There will never be a day when I won__'__t think of you._

"Brava!" someone shouted loudly. Who was that? It shook me out of character for a moment. Who would have that kind of audacity to interrupt an aria? I smirked, and went on to finish the song.

_Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade,  
__They have their seasons, so do we.__  
But please promise me that sometimes  
You will think__—_

A beat of silence. Then, I raised my voice in a staccato cadenza, letting my voice dance upon the air, teasing the audience with my range. Perhaps I was showing off a bit, but, I thought satisfactorily, I deserved it. Let them all see that I was more than a clumsy cripple who cobbled together opera costumes!

I hit the final note triumphantly, projecting far and loudly, just as the Angel of Music had taught me.

—_Of me!_

As I flung the colourful scarf up into the air, the audience moved like a wave from the front rows backward, rising up with a deafening roar of applause. They flung flowers at my feet. They thought me a wonder! A well-cloistered secret hidden away in the Opéra. But now what? I took my bows, sinking to the stage. But I couldn't limp off! The spell of the music was broken. I was no longer Queen Elissa, I was only Christine Daaé. So I did the only thing I could think of. I let my eyes roll back into my head, and I fell limply to the floor.

I heard Monsieur Reyer call urgently, "The curtain, bring it in! She's fainted!"

Then, the heavy swoop of the velvet curtains closing gracefully before me. I experimentally opened my eyes, and saw Madame Giry leaning over me, holding out my cane to me, eyes shining.

"_Merci,__"_ I whispered shakily, blushing.

She nodded, helping me to my feet. "You did very well tonight, _ma chère_. Your father would be proud."

I smiled sheepishly. Perhaps he would be. And yet, after all these years, it was someone else I had wanted to please first. More important than any of the pompous critics or the aristocrats who had sat on their plush velvet seats. So I made my way through the crowds of people all looking to compliment me, and found the relatively-empty Opéra personnel passage. But before I went back to my workshop, I peeked around the corner toward the row of changing chambers.

I fought a chuckle as I saw the crowd of admirers milling about before the diva's dressing room. Little did they know, it was vacant.

"Miss Daaé, Miss Daaé!" they chorused, waving dozens of bouquets.

I grinned as Miss Daaé hurried away to her tiny backstage bungalow filled with unfinished costumes made by her own hand.


	4. Angel of Music

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_ANGEL OF MUSIC_

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**One thing I was certain of**, as I scurried along the personnel passage, was that no one who watched me was aware that I had not only sewn but also had a hand in designing the elegant Elissa gown that I wore that night. And, being the practical woman that I was, I had carefully added hidden pockets in the attached skirt in its last-minute alterations. Ridiculous, I know, but it was a habit from many years of creating my own frocks. The corridors in the rear of the Opéra were abandoned for the celebration that was, no doubt, raging just behind the lavish curtains and in the foyers.

I paused in front of my plain, unfinished wooden door, and withdrew my key from the pocket. It was a tarnished thing of aging metal, tied with a new silk tassel left over from a recent costume. I slid it gently into the keyhole, and wiggled it until I felt it click into place. Then, I drew a deep breath, and with a grunt, shoved my shoulder against the heavy wood. The door creaked open, revealing a gaping darkness.

My workshop was set far and back from the rest of the crew's rooms. It was rather small and lacked windows, but I had made it my home for several years. I had all I needed there: my work supplies, a sturdy straight-backed chair, a narrow couch heaped with personal affects, and an old silk changing screen I had rescued from the costume department's renovation. And, there in the corner, was Petite Claire Jaune, my pet canary. She sang away from her little cage. Claire kept me company the long hours after my morning lesson while I worked on new gowns.

My hand hovered near the closest oil lamp, when I heard, _Brava_ (in my left ear)_, brava _(in the right)_, baravissima _(just behind me)…

I was glad that it was still dark in the room because my cheeks grew immensely hot. Praise! I could have been lauded by all the royals in Europe, and it would be no match for that simple commendation of the Angel of Music. A smile spread across my face. He was here.

"Christine! Christine!" a delicate, feminine voice called out from the corridor.

_Christine …_ I started at the echo. This time, I distinctly heard his ethereal voice emit from the gild-framed mirror. I stared at the reflective glass; all I saw was my own darkened silhouette framed by the glow of the lamps in the hall. I took one unsure step toward the mirror.

Catherine was quietly trailing as Meg, in her sweet white tutu and hair ribbon, appeared in the doorway grinning ear to ear. "How is the Opéra Populaire's new star?"

I lit the lamp quickly, and gestured for them to enter as I switched on the new electric light fixtures. Meg flounced in, taking a seat in my chair, her favourite place in my chamber. I faced her finally, with a belated, "What?"

She laughed, a sound like a spring of clear water. "I heard Messieurs Andre and Firmin say that you are to be our new diva if La Carlotta doesn't come back."

I smirked and raised an unkempt eyebrow. "Imagine that. Who'll make my costumes, then?"

We shared a laugh, and then she rose from the stiff chair and gave my numb right hand a sisterly, affectionate squeeze. I did my best to squeeze back, but the result was more than feeble. Catherine quickly detached the bulky skirts, and bowed her head in my direction as she left. I found a spare, ruffled white dressing gown, and wrapped it over the scant ballet costume. I tied the belt tightly, and shyly touched her warm arm.

She gushed, "Oh, Christine, you were so wonderful out there! You—you were perfect!"

_Perfect? _I thought darkly. _Dear Meg, how can you be so wrong? Look at me. How am I perfect? _I looked at her, and keenly felt the distance between us. She was so different from I. Marguax Giry was young and beautiful; she would have no difficulty in finding a husband who would fall hopelessly in love with her effortless grace and her bright spirit. I sighed miserably; at twenty-one and impossibly shy, I was practically already branded for spinsterhood, not to mention having never been in love. In fact, I was terrified of it; I would rather find contentment than risk falling in love and being rejected.

Unaware of my lonely, bitter thoughts, Meg was speaking. "Maman said you had a special teacher. Who is he?"

"Meg," I started carefully, partly excited to share my secret with her, and partly nervous about her reaction. "Before I came here, my father used to tell me stories. One of them was about the Angel of Music, who granted the gift of song to believers. And when my father was dying, he promised that when he was in Heaven, he would send the Angel to me. And—and he came, Meg. He's been my protector for months; he's instructed me and trained my voice. Tonight was truly the triumph of the Angel."

"Christine…" Meg hesitated doubtfully. "You really believe this, don't you?"

I blinked. "What are you talking about, Meg?"

"This … this just isn't like you. You're far too sensible to believe such a fairytale!"

I bristled. How dare she! She doubted me? Only an angel could have produced those supernatural tones that regularly lulled me to sleep and woke me from shapeless dreams. I had heard him for three months now! And what did she know about it? Nothing!

I turned my back on my friend coldly. "Meg, perhaps you ought to leave now. I have some more work to do, and unlike singing, sewing is not an art that requires an audience."

She looked hurt. Instantly, I regretted my words. But before I could summon an apology, she said, wounded, "Very well, Christine. I have practise to attend anyway."

And she left, shutting the door behind her. The soft click was the sound of guilt. I drew a breath for a regretful sigh, but the heavy exhale never came.

Instead, someone else came in. Her black-clad figure was a welcome sight. Madame Giry said succinctly, "I have a note for you, Christine."

I blinked. "Thank you," I responded automatically, taking it nervously; she nodded and left. I curiously unfolded the thick cream parchment.

There were only three lines, written in a firm, square script: _A red scarf … The attic … Little Lotte._


	5. Little Lotte and the Mirror

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_LITTLE LOTTE AND THE MIRROR_

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**No sooner had I read those words**, my heart immediately picked up its plodding rhythm. There were footsteps outside my door!

Then, ever so cautiously, the door opened. A young gentleman bearing a bottle of expensive champagne entered through the door. My mind, reeling from the deflation, slowly registered his dark evening clothes: polished shoes, well-cut trousers, pale waistcoat, tailcoat, cream-coloured fringed scarf, ruffled white shirt and bowtie.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle," he said with a warm and amused smile. It wasn't until then that I focused sharply on his face, framed by short-cropped, neatly-combed golden chestnut hair.

It was broad and impossibly youthful, with a determined set to the jaw line, a short nose, and boyish cheekbones. He had extraordinary large eyes the hue of where the Atlantic Ocean met the sky. My memory stirred at those eyes; I had seen them before … by the shores of the North …

"Good evening, Monsieur," I replied in the same teasing tone. But my unabashed grin would not be suppressed. That was how we greeted each other every night when he came to the cottage at the sea, where Papa and I were washing our dishes. I decided to take a jab at him, see if his memory was as clear as mine.

"I regret to inform you that Mademoiselle Angélique cannot be present for the picnic tonight," I stated matter-of-factly, using my one rag doll's name.

At that he laughed; and I recognised without a doubt my old playfellow. "Pity. I so would have enjoyed her presence at supper."

"Oh, Raoul, it's so wonderful to see you!" I looked around for my cane. Where had I misplaced it this time? I located it, at my desk. Without my braces, I hobbled toward it and grasped the handle. Then, I turned toward him. We shared a quick embrace.

He was smiling, but I could still see plainly the perplexed little boy. "So your—condition hasn't, ah, improved with time?"

I shook my head laconically, furrowing my brow. Why did he ask? He knew it wouldn't.

He attempted to recapture the warm atmosphere that had abruptly dissipated with his previous question. "Well, cane or no, I have missed you, Little Lotte. It's been far too long."

"It has," I agreed happily. I had a good many acquaintances in the Opéra's staff, a sweet sister in Meg Giry, but no other friend than Raoul de Chagny carried the precious memories of my father, and a lost childish innocence.

"What had become of your red scarf?" he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

I pointed to my tall and imposing wooden dresser. "In the top drawer on the left over there. For safekeeping." I grew pensive for a moment. "It's the only thing I have left of hers."

"What about her ring?" Raoul asked tentatively. "I would have thought you father …"

"Yes," I answered softly. "He gave it to me. But I lost it a few years ago. I'd worn it on a chain around my neck, and when the chain broke, the ring must have fallen away."

"Oh." He took a seat on my chair, where Meg had left it. "I'm sorry."

"So am I, Raoul," I sighed. My mother's gracile gold wedding band had been my most prized possession. But there was no use in dwelling on it tonight.

"_Alors_, Philippe and I are having supper at the Café de l'Opéra soon. Would you grace us with your presence?" I looked away. Philippe, Raoul's elder brother, had never liked me. He treated coldly, at arm's length, as if I were some sort of contaminated insect. I was working class, after all; far from suitable to be seen with him.

"No, not tonight," I said finally, after some mulling over, "I can't."

"If you have another engagement," he purred, "break it."

"No, I just—" Helplessly, I shook my head.

"Oh," he huffed. I almost saw the words _Another suitor _brand themselves on his mind. "Christine, this is my only week in Paris! Come now, whomever it is can wait."

I stared at him for a moment. However pleasant and doggedly patient his protestation, I knew Raoul de Chagny. He was, after all, a nobleman. Most recent in the line of time-honoured status and prolific wealth. He was born given everything his heart had ever desired. Everyone indulged him, always had. He _always_ had his way …

"No, Raoul."

"What?"

I tried to organise an explanation. "Listen to me. Do you recall my father's story of the Angel of Music?"

"Of course; it was your favourite. He must have told it to you every night." He smiled.

"Father told me I would hear the Angel after his—death." My voice caught on the word. Resolutely, I finished, defiant. "I have. He's my teacher, Raoul, and I can't disappoint him."

Raoul looked confused, unsure if I was merely joking or had seriously lost my mind. He settled with a neutral response of, "Of course you have. After your performance tonight, no one would refute that claim."

I backed away and sat down on the cushioned stool by my workspace. He didn't believe me. _Who would believe you, really? _my cynical inner voice taunted. Surely they thought I was delusional, tormented by long held grief, clinging to my father's final promise. No, I was perfectly lucid!

"Come now, Little Lotte. I can order my carriage and be ready in a few minutes. You can change and we'll be off!" His tone brisk and decisive, Raoul left, shutting the door behind him. I groaned. Well, I would simply have to tell him "no" again.

I might as well get comfortable while I waited, I thought. I yawned, and with great care, removed the wig of brunette curls and crown from my head; I unpinned my mouse-coloured real hair and shook it loose. It sprang free, at once falling over my shoulders. The air reaching my scalp felt refreshing.

Just beside the piles of clean clothes was a wash basin and a pitcher I'd filled this morning. I splashed the cool water onto my face, and began to scrub away the greasy stage makeup with a towel; I pat my face dry.

When I looked up from the towel however, the air in the room had changed, charged with terrible, weighty tension. Claire was silent. And when his voice echoed in the room, it veritably cracked like a whip.

_Your spoiled young suitor is back, Christine. He is just outside the door._

"Angel?" I said fearfully.

_Well? He is expecting you. You _must_ not be late. It would be such a _tragedy_ to disappoint him. _There was a bitter edge to the Angel's voice. And something I'd never heard from him: searing jealousy. He continued inexorably, _This night belongs to you and I, Christine. No one else._

"I know," I whispered, afraid to cry out louder than that. "And it really isn't me. It's your work."

_And yours. The gown is truly__—__beautiful._ His voice—always smooth and controlled—nearly broke on the last word.

I lowered my eyes humbly. I was still unused to such praise. I changed the subject. "Will you let me see you?"

He sounded surprised. _Do you so wish that?_

"Yes," I said, louder now, summoning my courage. "Please… There is nothing in the world that I want nothing more than that."

A pause. Then, I heard music. _The Resurrection of Lazarus _soared on violin! And it no longer flowed like liquid gold from the bricks of the walls. This music came from behind the mirror. And there, woven in among the strings, came the powerful singing: "Come! And believe in me! Whoso hath believed in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!"

I didn't care that the voice lost its otherworldly quality. I didn't care that it no longer sounded just by my ear or in my head or from the ceiling. I didn't care that it sounded like it came from a human throat powered by human breath. Somehow, it was still the same, compelling voice of the Angel. And I knew then that that singular fact would remain, even if everything else dissolved before my eyes.

A thousand things ran through my head to say, but as a dark figure manifested behind the glowing glass, only three words managed to pass my trembling lips: "Who are you?"

Wreathed in an inferno of white light, a pair of mysterious eyes met mine and I heard the hypnotic answer. "I am your Angel of Music."


	6. The Phantom of the Opera

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_THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA_

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**Those eyes.**

One of the darkest blue imaginable, the sky at midnight; the other impossibly pale, the sky at hazy mid-day. All at once melancholy, tender, and commanding. Those eyes seemed to hold me captive in their imperious gaze.

I was vaguely aware that we were moving. But my realistic, sensible persona had been pushed away. I had left the lonely, hardworking seamstress behind in her sewing work-room when I passed through the glowing glass of the mirror, and into the strange world beneath the opera house.

My guide down below was not an angel; though he was no less captivating. He was tall, so tall that I had to tilt my chin up to look at his face. He was dressed in immaculate evening-wear; his black trousers were cut perfectly, as were the low-cut black waistcoat and sleek back tailcoat with velvet-striped lapels. A pure white, pleated dress shirt with pairs of buttons that marched down the front was topped at the throat with a neat bow-tie. The hand that lightly, almost cautiously, held mine was thin and elegant with a polished hematite ring on his smallest finger. He bore a strangely-bright lantern in the other that eerily illuminated our descending path.

The hairs on my forearms stood, and I was quite aware of the chill in our environment, and realised the reasoning for the wide-brimmed fedora and heavy wool cloak that draped over his arms like wings. It was an admirable piece, with a standing velvet collar, lined with black satin, and trimmed with sparkling jewels.

Leading me down the narrow passage, he spared a glance at me, and I found myself studying with curiosity the most incongruous aspect of his attire. The mask.

A smooth, diagonal white mask with a sculpted brow covered more than half of his face. It traversed his forehead, covered his nose, and curved over his lip. However, the left side of his face was exposed, revealing unfamiliar features. He had none of the boyishness that Raoul retained, but a firm, mature quality defined his features; he was as paler than I was, with deep-set well-defined eyes, a curving cheek, and a rounded brow. His dark left eye was fringed with thick lashes like his immaculate, shining dark hair, and his mouth was generously-shaped, but disconcertingly swollen on the right edge that disappeared behind the mask.

"Be careful, Christine; the steps are slick." His voice jarred me out of my rapt reverie. Very much human, and yet—indisputably the same voice that sang to me in my dreams. And the acute—and alarming—feeling that I knew him intimately prevailed. I continued to study him curiously as we began moving down a series of ramps. There was such certitude to his step and an intriguing poise that I had thought was reserved solely for dancers.

Something stirred at the back of my mind. The memory of a late-night rendezvous—a quest—with some of the younger ballet girls. Meg Giry had begged me to go along with her in search of the infamous Opera Ghost.

_Ever since I had rid the ballet dormitory of a large spider (by freeing it outside the window) on Meg's request, I had developed a reputation among the younger girls as being a fearless protectress. It had been summer, off-season, and the theatre was swelteringly hot. I had gone along, for fear that something truly dangerous may happen to one of them. They were all very young; little Rochelle Jammes was only fourteen at the time. They had all crowded into the orchestra pit, looking along the grounds for a trap door. I had kept watch, perched on the edge, scanning the flies and the keeping an eye on Box Five, as Meg had insisted upon. _

_I happened to turn my eyes up at the flies for a moment, and I saw something move._

_There, moving swiftly among the rafters, was a tall being swathed in a full-length dark cloak and topped with a wide-brimmed hat. I watched the figure__'__s impossible, catlike grace; and when I blinked, it had vanished._

_The girls spent a few more nervous minutes hunting for a trapdoor before the English sisters, Elizabeth and Leah Shaw, begged us to all go back, for fear of rousing the Phantom__'__s ire._

_On the way back, Meg had asked me glumly, __"__Did you see anything?__"_

"_No,__"__ I answered finally, covering my lie. __"__Meg, there is no ghost.__"_

"_Yes, there is,__"__ she had insisted stubbornly. __"__You__'__ll see him someday. We all will.__"_

The man now leading me down the steep ramps took another nimble step, his cloak swaying. Yes, I recognised that refined feline movement.

"You—" I stammered suddenly. "You are the Phantom!"

He looked back at me, surprised at my outburst. Then, for the first time, I heard him laugh; a profound, rich sound. With a charmingly amiable air, he said, "Am I really?"

Despite my sensible fear, I found myself fighting a smile. We descended the stone slopes by flickering lantern-light, and as I looked around me, I saw numerous narrow passageways and dark thresholds.

"I had no idea there was such a labyrinth down here," I mused, mostly to myself.

"No one comes down this far," he said softly, almost sadly. When I looked up at him, he added more guardedly, "Watch your step."

Unwittingly, I misjudged the steepness of the step and stumbled. Within an eye blink, he had a firm grip on my forearm, and a hand on my waist. When I tried to catch my breath, I found it much more difficult than usual.

"Be careful," he whispered again. He withdrew his touch from my waist and took my hand again. We resumed our descent. While I carefully placed one foot in front of the other, unbidden worries of life above ground came. "Where are we going?"

No answer. But his fingers tightened slightly on mine.

Adrenaline shot through my body, and I stopped, twisting my torso to half-turn backwards. "I—I have to make the ballerinas new practise tutus and check over the costumes for the new run of _Il Muto_ and _Faust_, and feed Claire, and—"

"Hush." I was silenced by a cold fingertip delicately placed against my lips. "You needn't worry about any of that now. Spare your backward glances."

It wasn't long before the inclines ended, and we came to the wharf of what appeared to be a lake. A small-but-intricately-decorated gondola floated there in a long, misty expanse of water. My breathing hitched, and my heartbeat was interrupted. My phobia of shallow water surged up and I froze in utter terror.

"Christine?" The Phantom (though I felt most daft referring to him by that absurd title) spoke my name with deep concern, turning away from the boat, brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"

It was a silly fear, really, but the lifelong nightmares had cemented it. It ran deep through me.

When I was three years old, my mother had drowned in the sea. She'd been dragged under by a strong current, and her body was never recovered. Ever since then, the fear that I would suffer the same fate tormented me; especially since my legs could give out beneath me without warning. The panic of this morning's reprisal revisited me; I felt myself drowning again. I tried to speak, but could only shake my head, taking a step backward.

He approached me uncertainly. "Are you afraid?"

I nodded vehemently, still seeking my buried powers of speech.

He held out his hand to me, and spoke with fierce protectiveness. "I swear I won't let anything happen to you, Christine. You're safe with me. Trust me."

I made a mighty effort to control myself and regain composition. Then, I took a tiny step toward him, and the water's edge. And another. I slipped my hand into his, and met his mismatched eyes once again. Now, they were purely caring and powerfully shielding. And I did feel safe with him. It gave me an odd feeling of déjà vu; I hadn't had a tangible protector since my father grew ill.

He helped me into the boat. Once I sat down on the opulent velvet cushions, I grasped the edges of the boat as though my life depended on it. My knuckles turned white when it swayed as he stepped onto the stern, bearing a long pole. In the gondola, we moved along the open water, bordered at the edges by the stone foundation. I kept my head up, looking at the utilitarian architecture to distract myself from the water, covered by a thick bluish mist.

"Listen," he said. His voice echoed majestically in the cavern. "The acoustic quality here is nearly perfect."

Awestruck, I nodded. Every sound was amplified all around us, as though the stone filtered out the impurities and returned a mesmerising music.

"Sing," he urged softly. "Sing, Christine."

I complied. And what amazed me was that singing demolished the fear that had been choking my heart only moments earlier. In summoning the sound from my throat, I rose above the terror of drowning.

I released a wordless aria from deep within my core that rose higher and higher in pitch and extravagance, pushing each note to the very limits of my lungs. And the sound, reflected off the stone walls, came back at my ears transformed. It sounded unearthly, tailed by a ringing echo. As my voice rose, full of vibrato, I saw a hulking portcullis do the same to reveal a kingdom of music at the breathtaking crescendo.


	7. The Music of the Night

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_THE MUSIC OF THE NIGHT_

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**To say I was surprised is an understatement.** I knew that the Opéra was a truly immense building, with well over two thousand doors, but I had never considered its foundations. And here, far below the stage where I had just performed that very night, was a veritable house on a lake.

The iron portcullis shut laboriously. I peered around, astonished. It was an enormous, irregularly-shaped dwelling carved from the sheer rock. All around this mystifying cavern stood silver candelabras with an abstracted design of griffins and women clothed in dusty wax drippings.

The masked man calmly and deftly poled the gondola to a small port on the shore of the grotto. The impact of the bow against the ground shook me from my enthralled trance. A healthy dose of rational fear shot through my body. I'd been kidnapped by a stranger and taken beneath the ground!

The Phantom easily disembarked from the gondola, setting the long pole against the rough wall. He offered his hands, and I grasped them to unsteadily step out of the swaying boat. We moved through a narrow passage that immediately opened into the main room of his lair. Along the far wall was a formidable pipe organ the likes I had never seen outside of a cathedral. Standing nearby was what appeared to be a vast frame covered by a pale grey dust sheet.

Once we were well inside the chamber, he removed his hat and shrugged away the cloak; he smoothed his hair back before turning around to face me again.

Without warning, I felt a singular emotion well up from inside that surprised me.

Fury.

My hands clenched into fists and my breathing came in short gasps. My voice shook violently. "You—you lied to me!"

His turned toward me, looking as bewildered as the objective part of my mind was. He began, "Christine—"

"No," I cut him off. "Why? Why bother deceiving me, all this time? Was it funny to you? Because I'm weak—I'm daft¾I'm _crippled_? You—"

But when I looked up at him standing before me, I stopped mid-tirade. He was watching me steadily, but his expression would haunt me for the rest of my life. There was so much misery in his eyes … so much sadness. My heart suddenly swelled at the sight.

My fury collapsed instantly, replaced by dogged self-loathing. How could I have been so _dim-witted_? I upbraided myself, falling suddenly to my knees. To believe in an Angel of Music! Here I was, a grown woman, still chasing my father's absurd fairytales.

Ashamed, but unwilling to let go of my pride, I continued half-heartedly. "You're not … an angel."

He slowly came closer, and knelt before me. We were at eye level when he shook his head. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" I demanded again, but a different question. "Why should I forgive you?"

"You shouldn't," he said quietly. "I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I did give you what you wished for."

"I asked for the Angel of Music," I challenged.

"You asked," he replied sadly, deliberately, "_not to be alone anymore_."

I looked down shamefully again at my scarred hands on my lap. The, a different hand came into view; it was long and slender, with a gold ring on the last finger. I glanced back up at him before timidly placing mine in his.

"Where are we?" I whispered in wonder. It truly was a massive place.

"My home," he answered, "which is also yours."

I stood up with a little intake of breath. At the sound, he looked back at me reassuringly. "There is nothing to fear, Christine."

Though I followed him passively, I turned back toward the portentous portcullis with a quick jab of stress. I felt a touch beneath my chin, turning my face away.

The Phantom spoke hypnotically. "Life here is like a resurrection. Forget the life you left behind. You needn't be a slave to _them_ anymore." He glanced upwards at the stone ceiling. I recalled with bitterness the scorn and condescension I met every day; the haughtiness that La Carlotta and La Sorelli looked down upon me. The mocking laughter from the ballet rats. Even the stares I received as a child.

I followed him to the organ, where he sat down and began to play. The sound was deep and resonating, the music lush and complex. The music was captivating, the sort of tune that dug itself deep inside and refused to leave. I swayed to the melody, the movement beyond my control.

"You didn't answer my question," I murmured when the song ended. "Why me?"

"You promised me your soul, Christine," he answered cryptically. "If you give it to me tonight, I can give you a voice to make the seraphim in Heaven envious."

He stood up and moved towards me, bringing his cupped fingertips to gently brush my chin; I shivered. And within my chest, my heart trembled. I turned around abruptly, attempting to gather a measure of composure. An arm slipped around me, across my collarbone. Embraced from behind, I stiffened instinctively. Aside from a friendly hug or brush on the arm once in a while, I was unaccustomed to physical contact. But the awkwardness dissipated, replaced by a curious drowsy feeling of belonging. I slowly lifted my free hand and drew my fingertips across the cold surface of the mask. I felt his cool palm press gingerly against the back on my hand, then his fingers slid between mine. He drew my hand away as I turned to face him.

Holding my hand between both of his, he intoned, "There is no one else who can sing the music that I compose. Will you help me?"

"Yes." I spoke without even thinking. Thought had been abandoned, and only emotions remained.

"Let me show you what I've written for your voice." He began to rummage through the piles of sheet music that crowded the top of the organ. After a bit, I wandered away restlessly, toward the other end of the room. I found myself drawn to the large structure beneath the grey sheet.

"What is this?" I asked. I grasped the edge of the drape and pulled it off.

I heard him call out my name in distress, but it was too late.

At first, I thought I was gazing into a mirror. It was indeed, once a mirror, but the glass had been mostly broken away, leaving only shards clinging heartbrokenly to the gilded frame. Then, I realised that the image of me was clad in an intricate white wedding gown, with a sheer veil drawn over its face, holding a bouquet of fresh white roses. I could smell their soft, sweet fragrance from where I stood. And that face… was completely me. Every faded scar, freckle, and wrinkle was perfectly replicated. The lingering sad expression in the dark eyes, the drooping lashes, the unkempt brows. Even the coarse hair was the same shade of dusty brown-blonde, and the gentle, crooked smile was undeniably lifelike. I could only stare, dumbstruck.

And in my mind's eye, the automat lunged forward, flinging out its arms to pull me into an embrace. I imagined myself getting caught in its arms, and the two of us merging into one; then _I_ was the inanimate figure in the bridal garb. Motionless. _Dead._

The vision faded into black. Darkness submerged my mind.


	8. Prisoners

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PRISONERS

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_He shivered from the cold. It was an unusually frosty October evening in Paris, and despite being a hardy Swede, he felt the chill air keenly. That was most likely due to his poor clothing. His wool coat was full of wide holes, and he didn__'__t have a hat. He knelt by his violin case, and carefully counted the coins that lay on the velvet lining. He was far from wealthy, but he smiled; there was enough for a humble dinner tonight. He dropped the money into his coat pocket, and placed his old, battered violin inside. _

_He walked the streets of the French capital, on his way to his favourite bistro in the Quartier Latin. He strode the Boulevard Haussmann and turned onto the Rue Scribe. He always passed the Palais Garnier__'__s ornate façade, with its rich columns and statuary. But he did not halt for the architecture. He stopped just below a series of windows that he knew were those of the ballet dormitory. There, he took his violin out again, and began to play. _

_It was a tune he had written himself, a verdant, romantic piece. He played it every night for the ballerina he had seen his one time at the Opéra. She was beautiful and graceful, swan-like, with starlight-coloured hair and an angel__'__s face. He sighed as he drew his bow down in a final, plaintive note. He hoped, but never expected, that something would happen. _

_But tonight, a soft object landed at his feet. He bent, and picked up a long, smooth scarlet scarf with fringe on its ends. He looked up, and saw her--beautiful Charlotte Landry. She was illuminated by dying sunlight, like a halo._

**I woke up feeling curiously well-rested. **I honestly didn't get much sleep usually, as I spent many hours working day and night. The first thing I noticed was that my back didn't hurt. The mattress in my cheap flatwas slightly lumpy and rather flat. I awoke more than once with pain in my neck, hip, and back. But this bed was luxuriously soft. And the covers that came up to my chin were thick and warm.

My eyes snapped open of their own accord. Disorientation clouded my mind for several minutes before the previous night's events flooded back. I stared upwards, then sat up quickly, holding a hand to my temple to quell the dizziness. I blinked a few times, then looked around at the room where I was held.

It was about twice the size of my work-room, irregularly-shaped but still quite comfortable. There was an aged Louis-Philippe chest of drawers against one wall, and a mammoth armoire filled the other side; candles of various sizes lined the walls, and a vanity table stood unobtrusively in the corner. Climbing out of my boat-shaped bed, I discovered a luxurious bath and lavatory attached to the bedchamber.

I wrapped my ruffled white robe around myself tighter as I ventured out of the bedroom. There, resting in a curlicue of the nearest candelabrum, was a coil of parchment; it was a rich stationary with a dark red scrawl etched deeply into the surface:

_My dear Christine,_

_You have no greater nor more respectful friend in the world than myself. I am afraid I must leave you alone here presently. I have gone out to fetch a few things for you, and shall return with due speed. In the meanwhile, please make yourself at home. _

It was unsigned. I looked around the empty lair, finding the portcullis still down, and swirling mist lying on the water. Many candles burned all around me, giving off a loving warmth and glow beside the new electric light fixtures. I crossed the lair, passing the huge organ, intrigued by the heaps of possessions that lay carelessly by a desk on the other side.

I looked around curiously, as cautious as if I were in a museum. A tall bookshelf caught my attention, filled with large, leather-bound tomes. I ventured toward it, hoping to recognise a few authors. Before taking up the mending at Notre-Dame, I'd veritably lived in the small library, sitting hunched on the floor over a volume between the shelves. But the way was cluttered with objects as varied as classic statuary, art supplies, and assorted instruments. There was a violin and a cello, a grand piano shoved in the corner, with several sheaves of lined paper littering the top. At the far end was a full fireplace and hearth, blackened with soot.

I paused in front of a small table supporting a vanity-sized mirror. There were two mannequin heads, both covered with black wigs. I blinked, recalling my captor's sleek ebony hair. Just as I reached out a hand to touch one of them, I heard three firm knocks on the wall. I quickly stumbled backward, stopping only when my back collided with a board.

To my incredulity, a door opened up from the solid rock wall. The Phantom returned, bearing in his arms two very large boxes and a brown paper sack. He was dressed as formally as he had been last night, masked and cloaked. The black fedora with its wide, shapely brim was perched on his head. With a flourish of his embellished cape, he shut the door behind him, which made an audible click as it disappeared seamlessly into the wall again.

He glanced at me unsurprised, and removing his hat, greeted, "Hello Christine."

"G-good morning," I stammered in reply.

"I'm afraid, my dear, it is quite some time past morning. You slept well, then?" He made no mention of the figure in the wedding gown.

"Yes, very … Thank you." Years of hard-pressed manners refused to depart.

"Wonderful." He looked around, and set down the boxes, placing his hat on the nearby bookshelf, and laying his cloak over the back of a spartan chair.

"May I ask you a question?" I inquired suddenly, shyly.

"Certainly." He spoke with an air of paternal affection underlined with wary caution.

"What is your name?" I hesitated awkwardly when he stiffened. "I just feel rather silly thinking of you 'the Phantom' or 'the Opera Ghost'—"

"Or the Angel of Music?" he finished softly. He looked away, and I found myself staring at the white half-mask.

"No!" I protested immediately. "I just—" Helplessly, I shrugged.

"I have not been called by my name in many years," he sighed darkly. "And it will be strange indeed to hear it from your lips. It is Erik."

"Erik," I repeated thoughtfully. He had not pronounced it with a French accent. "Then a—are you from Scandinavia, too?"

"No." I waited, but soon I understood that he would not give me a surname. I was perplexed. The voice I'd trusted and adored for years now had a name, and a—partial—face. But there was still a guarded distance like an iron veil between us. As though he was still Israfel, the Angel of Music, and I a mere mortal.

"How long am I to stay here?" I asked tentatively, attempting not to sound ungrateful.

He gazed off briefly into a middle distance. "Five days. We shall devote our time to music."

"Music?"

He gave me a pointed look. "I am still your teacher, Christine. You did very well last night, but more training will prove rewarding. These are for you," he added nonchalantly, indicating the two long boxes.

I looked up at him, startled. "Thank you."

I opened the nearest box to find a stunning gown of cornflower blue with a floral stripe print, trimmed with white lace, navy blue velvet and ruffles. It had an elegant waterfall bustle and intricately-embroidered bodice of silver vines and blossoms with tiny buttons marching down the front. The details were remarkable. I gaped. It must have taken hundreds of hours to complete this dress!

The second box contained a soft royal blue wool cape with a deep hood. It was floor-length and of significant weight, perfect for the oncoming Parisian winter.

"Dear lord," I murmured. "These are amazing! I—Thank you so much."

"If you wish, you may put them in your armoire," he said coolly, with a nod of acknowledgement. "I also suggest you get dressed, my dear."

I glanced down sheepishly at my white dressing gown. "Very well."

I carried the garments back to my room. There, in the armoire, was a vast array of beautiful frocks and gowns. Instinctively, I knew the were all made of the finest fabrics—lush velvets, luminous silk taffetas, satins, crepe de chine, shantungs, intricate jacquards, delicate cottons … They were forest green, murky crimson, solemn black, mellow peach, blushing rose, neutral calico, lilac violet. Tucked into drawers, I discovered several magnificently-soft cashmere shawls and wraps. I was dazed.

I selected the plainest frock I could find, a simple pale green affair with nothing but basic ruffles on the sleeves and modest neckline. Then, I sat heavily at the small vanity in the corner. I frowned at the bushy tangle of wiry hair that topped my head. I easily found a large brush and wide-tooth comb, and began to pull it violently through the wild, bulky locks.

I growled in frustration. There was a huge tangle just beyond my reach. I twisted my neck to the side, and reached with my left hand. It was still too far to the right, and my other hand's lack of dexterity made it useless.

"May I help you?" Erik asked, voice subdued. Almost shyly, timid as a little boy. In the mirror, I saw him standing at the threshold, unwilling to cross it.

"I—certainly." I watched his reflection grow as he approached and stood behind me. I handed him the wooden-handled brush, and braced myself for the typical pulling pain that accompanied the task of brushing my hair. Instead, with soft, persistent strokes, my hair gradually smoothed out.

"This is something my father used to do," I murmured. The brush quivered against my skull, but Erik said nothing.

I lowered my eyes, powerless to resist the memories that inundated my mind. When I was very, very young, my mother had had the duty of grooming my gawkish hair. When she died, I had been so distraught that I refused to have anyone touch my head for weeks. Finally, my father coaxed me out of my gloom, washed and combed my filthy locks. And every morning until he grew too weak, it was Papa who brushed my nightly-matted hair.

The rest of the afternoon was spent, as promised, committed to music. He tested the reaches of my range, narrowing in on my weaknesses and noting them. We went over passages from various operas that I had learned over the years watching in the wings and listening.

In the evening (at least, I thought it was the evening--without a clock or a window, I was unsure), Erik lit a fire in the brick hearth. I found a comfortable seat on a worn chaise; Erik sat opposite me in an overstuffed chair. I noticed that all his furniture seemed rather old and very tattered.

I saw a magnificent painting resting by the hearth. It was an elaborate tangle of green vines and leaves beneath a midnight sky sprinkled with stars. Near the centre was a blossoming rose of beautiful symmetry, its petals the deepest crimson imaginable. But as I studied it closer, I saw that its stem held a prolific amount of sharp thorns. Perched just over one of these large appendages was a small rusty brown bird. Its wings were outspread, and its dark eyes gleamed in helpless sorrow.

"What is this?" I asked.

Erik said wisely, "It is the nightingale and the rose."

**Time had passed. **I was vaguely sure of that. How many minutes, hours, days had budded, bloomed, and withered, I was unsure. Without daylight, time stood still, unbound from its division of light and dark. All that existed in the world was Erik. Erik, his music, and the constant, shaping of my voice. Our life below the ground was simple. We shared unadorned meals, spent hours poring over operatic scores, then Erik would read from the many books that we both adored, or tell me stories, like the tale of the nightingale and the rose.

Long, long ago, all roses were swan white. But one night, a small, plain bird fell in love with a rose; from the purity of his passion, his voice gave way to song. Though he sang beautifully to the rose, she feared him, and in despair, he pressed his body to a thorn on her stem. It was the doomed nightingale's blood that coloured the flower scarlet. He gave his life for her love, but was left with only death. The story had left me in tears.

Evenings, I would drift off to sleep cradled by his voice, and wake assuming morning in the boat-shaped bed, pondering the mystery of the man who was my Angel.

"**I thought you might enjoy a night above ground, Christine. **You are free to leave tomorrow." There was a note of sorrow in Erik's voice that resounded in me.

_Do you want to leave? _I asked myself sternly. No answer came, only an unsettling feeling. I hurried to the Louis-Philippe Room, and changed into the exquisite blue striped gown and threw the coordinating cloak over it. I tied a ribbon around my mass of bushy hair. When I came out, Erik was waiting for me.

He was clothed in customary formal dress, with a low-cut black waistcoat and small, neat bowtie. His opulent cloak was set upon his shoulders, and the curved-brim fedora was placed on his head. With quick raps on the wall, the concealed door popped open. With his customary light touch, he guided me through a pitch black labyrinth and up several flights of stairs. Then, with a flick of his free wrist and something I thought was a key, a door swung open. In wonder, my eyes registered the Rue Scribe at dusk. Even more surprising was the open carriage that waited, drawn by two spirited black horses.

Erik helped me up into the carriage. Once I was settled into my leather seat, he crossed around the front, pausing only to lay a gloved hand on each of the horses' noses. He climbed into the carriage on the other side, where he picked up the reins.

The ride was dark and quiet, but the fresh air felt wonderful. I'd forgotten how delightful the warm, late-summer evening could be. Or perhaps I had spent too long under the surface indifferent to the pleasures of mundane life. I drew my azure cloak about me, as the bracing wind swept against my face.

We spent some time walking in the Bois de Boulogne, its artificial nature now quite bereft of human populace. It felt almost desolate, as though there were no other people left in the world save Erik and myself. That was a strangely comforting feeling, that no one was left who would laugh at my disability, or taunt me with jeers.

The glorious moon that night reflected its silver light off the rippling lake, casting its glow onto the white of Erik's pleated-front dress shirt and perpetual mask. For the first time, I realised that the mask's presence did not bother me; I did not feel compelled to see what lay hidden under it.

"I was going to wait to give this to you, but I though that tonight would be appropriate." He reached into his pocket, and withdrew a small white drawstring bag. I took it with an inquiring glance at him, and found a ring inside. It was a very simple, very plain gold band. But it made my eyes well with tears.

"My mother's ring …" I said reverently. "I thought I'd lost it."

"You almost did," Erik said, slightly nervously. "Below your workshop, I was listening to you humming one evening when I suppose the ring must have fallen from its chain. It passed through a loose floorboard and landed at my feet."

I turned it over in my hands. There, engraved on the inner curve of the ring were the letters "C.D." Charlotte Daaé. He was telling the truth. I slipped it onto the fourth finger of my right hand, overjoyed that it fit. All my life Papa had told me I had inherited Mama's long and slender hands and feet.

He did not kneel, and he did not place the ring onto my finger. Then why did I feel that we were betrothed?

He offered me his elbow and we walked in silence for a few moments. My hand was tucked tightly in the crook of Erik's arm. He kept his stride measured, a subtle restraint of movement so I could keep up with him. Diffidently, I leaned my head to rest on his shoulder. I felt, rather than heard, the contented sigh that ran through his body. Staring at the cobblestones beneath our feet, I felt him nuzzle the crown of my hair tenderly. His masked nose gently pressed against my scalp. When we reached the carriage, I moved only reluctantly, regretting that I had to disengage from Erik's side.

He held out his hand. I took it gratefully, to clamber up into the carriage. But with one foot on the step, I turned back to face him. He held my hand a few minutes longer than was necessary. Erik gazed at me, and I shivered. We were dangerously close; if either one of us moved forward just a bit, our lips would touch. Such a small distance, and all veils, all masks, would be stripped away—he would not be an angel, and I would not be a child.

"_Christine!_"

A jolt hit me like lightening. The sound of that voice brought back a rush of undesired thoughts of the world beyond. Thinking of my forsaken responsibilities were like broken glass. Because I knew who had called out my name in desperation.

Raoul.

Erik had swiftly wrapped a wide black cowl over his head. But in the streetlights, his eyes glittered dangerously. He ordered me chillingly, "In."

"Erik," I said, suddenly afraid of the dangerous knife-edge of his fury. I veritably jumped into the carriage, and sat tersely, hanging my head.

He gave no answer, only driving the horses vengefully at a murderous speed back to the Opéra. I tried to speak to him, but he continued to punish me with silence down through the corridors, rage radiating from him like an aura of flames.

"Will you _listen to me_?" I nearly screamed when we stumbled back into the house on the lake. The sheer force of my cry gave him pause in his rapidly-darkening mood. But then my voice failed me.

A violent cough wracked my body. I felt it at the base of my throat, the pain radiating out from my chest; sharp pains stabbed the backs of my lungs. I panted, still coughing, trying to take a deeper breath, bent over at the waist. Then, I straightened up. But I moved too quickly, and my vision swam and darkened. Dizziness swept over my senses, and I wobbled dangerously on my legs.

Erik was beside me, holding me. He had hold of my arm, and had wrapped his own around my waist.

"Are you all right?"

I shook my head, frantically fighting the lethargy that was spreading insidiously, still struggling to breathe. I gave a choking wheeze. I could barely see or hear him. Panic was suffocating me, panic and lack of breath.

"Sshh." He began to move the hand on my back in slow, soothing circles. And, oddly, it helped. I managed to swallow, and my senses cleared.

"Is that better?"

I nodded, and coughed again. The pain returned, stinging my throat.

"Maybe you should just rest tonight," he whispered, all his harsh resentment forgotten.

"But—" I began to protest, but the effort scraped along inside my throat.

Erik drew me into his arms, and the world dissolved.

**It was several days before Erik decided that I was well enough to sing again. **He gave me steaming cups of tea and strange herbal medicinal-tasting potions. I lay on my chaise by the hearth, struggling against boredom with books of ghosts stories and lyric poetry. I was relieved the morning when Erik announced that we would go on with my lessons.

We were in the cluttered grotto; Erik was seated at the piano, playing Chopin's elegantly passionate Nocturne in B flat minor. I cleared my throat, and was pleased at the lack of pain.

"Shall we?" I asked, smiling. He chuckled softly, and prepared for the oddly-melodious warm-ups.

"_Do re mi fa so fa re fa mi … do re mi fa so fa re mi do_," he sang. "Now you."

I replicated his warm-ups, but my constricted chest limited my notes. I could tell that this displeased my teacher.

"Breathe in, Christine," he said firmly. "First on one, then after three."

I tried it again, but only to the same effect and Erik's mild frustration. I wasn't sure how to improve it, but he immediately pinpointed the problem.

"Your corset--the stays are laced too tightly." Erik was staring at me, and for a second, his professional demeanour wavered.

"Oh—" My mouth gaped like a fish's.

"Let me." He stopped short, apparently realising how that must have sounded. "I think only a few of your laces should be slackened. The rest are fine."

I only stared at him for an instant. And, within that instant, it seemed all the tiny flames of the candles in the lair leaped from their wicks to caress my skin. I felt engulfed by fire.

I cast aside my knit shawl and turned around. I shut my eyes, and heard him rise from the organ bench and take the two steps to come directly behind me.

I held my breath as I felt his fingers lightly brush the small of my back. It did nothing to calm my racing heart. My pulse pounded so loudly throughout my body, I was surprised that Erik did not hear it. I wrapped my arms around myself and lifted my shoulders, bringing my chin to rest on my collarbone. Erik's touch was light as he unbuttoned the back of my bodice. Then, I felt his fingers pull on the ribbons of my corset until the knot came free. I shuddered as he slid his fingers into the first criss-cross, and loosened it. My face felt hot as he pulled the laces at the second crossing. The sensation of his bare hands against the thin muslin of my chemise was both a torment and a rapture. But immediately, the pressure on my midsection was released, and I took a deep breath. I kept my arms clasped over myself when I turned around to face him.

"There," he said huskily. "Try the scale now."

"_Do re mi fa so fa re fa mi … do re mi fa so fa re mi do …_"The last note trembled uncontrollably.

"Good." He smiled, and it wasn't his ordinary mischievous smile—an upward quirk of the left corner of his mouth. This was a tender and sincere smile that showed itself in the appearance of the wrinkles around his visible eye. "Now, let us sing something from the opera, Christine."

We went through a few passages of Gounod and Meyerbeer, finishing with Mozart, before the lesson ended. I fled to my room, and did not emerge until dinnertime.

For dessert that night, he presented me with a heavy fruit that had a deep magenta, leathery skin, rounded in shape, save for a tiny crown at the top.

"It's a pomegranate," I said with a smile. I had eaten them before, when Papa and I passed through Greece. Erik cut the fruit in half, and began plucking the edible seeds from thin, papery white flesh. I eagerly reached for some. They had a rich flavour, deep and almost like wine.

"Yes," he answered thoughtfully, "The fruit that bound Persephone to Hades and his underworld kingdom."

I looked down at the six juice-filled seeds in my palm, my fingers stained rich magenta; I recalled the myth. One by one, I ate them.

That night, I dreamed of Persephone, the beautiful spring flower goddess robed in solemn black as the Queen of the Underworld, crowned with creamy white roses.


	9. Stranger than You Dreamt It

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_STRANGER THAN YOU DREAMT IT_

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_

_Persephone knew it was the first day of spring. She stretched out her neck and sighed. Her husband squeezed her hand, hoping she would change her mind and stay with him in the Underworld. But she knew the people on earth needed her, and there was much to do. She turned gracefully, and kissed Hades passionately, with the unspoken, sacred promise--_

I will return.

_He nodded, half-unwilling to let her go, but knowing he must. She slipped her gracile hand from his and disappeared._

_Above ground, Persephone blinked back her tears bravely. But inside, she cried out helplessly. All the flowers in her garden had died … _

**When I awoke the next morning,** I knew instinctively that it was far earlier than the hours I had been keeping in Erik's lair. My slumber had been troubled by nameless dreams, and I would be unable to sleep any longer. As if to underscore that thought, several dissonant chords from the pipe organ echoed in the lair. I yawned and stretched my limbs like a lazy Oriental cat.

I heard a gentle music playing just beside me. I sat up and noticed that what I had thought was a small statue of a monkey in Persian robes was actually a music box. It tapped its brass cymbals in time to the charming tune. I ran my hands through my hair, vainly trying to get it to lie smooth. I slipped on my white dressing gown, and belted it tightly at the waist.

Emerging from the Louis-Philippe Room, I spotted a dark shape at the organ. There was the faint, swift scratch of Erik's green quill against the thick parchment.

I took a step toward him, but stumbled on the edge of a rug. At the miniscule sound, Erik turned around. "Christine?"

"Good morning, Erik," I replied, both my hands resting on the stone wall beside me; my eyes fastened to them. Regaining my balance, I looked up at him, clad in his heavily-embellished Chinese silk robe.

"Yes," he said, surprise evident in his voice. "It _is_ rather early, my dear. I was not expecting you to wake for a few more hours."

I gave him self-mockingly innocent expression and tilted my head, then walked unsteadily toward him.

"Well," he said briskly with a welcoming smile. "Why don't we get your lesson done for the day, and after breakfast we can take a walk on the far shores of the lake. Would you like that?"

I nodded eagerly. His smile broadened, then he turned toward his loose collection of scores, pushing pages this way and that. Absently, he muttered, "I should like to hear you try the Queen of the Night … perhaps even Aïda …"

I looked with interest at the sheets of music scattered carelessly on the top of the organ. On the top of one, written in deep red ink, was the title _Don Juan_.

"_Don Juan_?" I asked Erik curiously.

"_Don Juan Triumphant_," he corrected gently.

"Like Mozart's opera? _Don Giovanni_?"

"No," he snapped. Then, he softened his tone. "No, it is not quite the same."

I knew the traditional story, as rewritten by Mozart. Don Juan was a Spanish nobleman who had seduced and ravished hundreds of women incognito. But the father of one of his victims swore vengeance upon the masked lover; Don Juan murdered the man and mocked him. But his ghost rose up and dragged the libertine to Hell.

"Will you play me something from your _Don Juan_?" I asked. I thought he would be pleased that I was interested in his work. I definitely was.

I watched his eyes quickly scan the bars before he smiled faintly and whispered, "Soon." Then he turned his head and looked at me, saying with a trace of sarcasm, "Let us practise for the opera tonight, Christine."

"Tonight?" The idea of performing in public again came as a shock. I had begun to believe that my existence with Erik was eternal; a blanketing cocoon that created a whole and private world unto us.

_Persephone always had to return to the world above in the spring …_

"Yes, the new run of _Il Muto _premiers this evening. Please look over the score for the role of the Countess." He had switched gears and spoke in the instructional tone I was accustomed to during my lessons.

_Il Muto _was an old standby at the Opéra. I recalled the plot as I warmed up and then sang the opening of the Countess' main aria. It told the story of a young noblewoman cheating on her aging husband with a mute page boy. It followed them to the countryside, where the Countess demanded that the page boy tell her he loved her. When he couldn't, she rejected him. I held out a high note with excessive, shaky vibrato.

Erik stopped playing, and I shut my mouth, bracing myself for his rigid criticism. But instead he turned toward me on the bench and stated quietly, "Your heart isn't in this today."

I began carefully. "Well, it's just that the Countess is being so unfair. Serafimo is a mute; he can't speak. She's demanding the impossible, and the poor page boy... He just _can__'__t_. And no matter how much he wants to ... I mean, there's nothing he can do to.... And I know how he must feel—people expecting that he do something that his body just lacks the ability."

Erik was studying me with his penetrating mismatched eyes. I blushed and stuttered, "I-I'm sorry if I—"

"No, my dear. It's quite all right." He seemed to draw a deep breath, then said, "Just try the last verse, then we will move on to the opening scene."

I looked over the last few bars, then began. Erik played the accompaniment perfectly, not even once glancing up at me, but I knew he was listening with utter concentration to my voice, just like in every lesson. This morning, however, I stared at his mask with renewed interest. He knew exactly what secrets lay beneath my mask—the mask of a hardworking, clumsy seamstress. Though his was more literal, I still wanted to know what he was hiding from me.

_When will you speak?  
__It is your words I seek__  
Tell me your secrets  
For all secrets hide in silence …_

"_What are you hiding with your silence_?" I sang with a despairing intensity. Erik was absorbed in his playing and listening. I reached for the mask, and seizing hold of an edge, pulled it away.

Beneath the hard white mask, Erik's face looked scarred, the complexion deathly pale. His cheekbone looked deeply rutted along the angle twice, the fleshless bone protruding far beyond a natural shape. His pale right eye was skeletally-sunken deep into the socket; there was a deep gouge into the side of his crooked Roman nose that seemed to be melted flat into his cheek. Sharp scars ripped across his forehead. And just as I had seen hinted at beneath the mask, his lips swelled and turned-up at the corners. But I felt neither horror nor disgust. Truly, I had seen far worse in the Notre Dame Infirmary.

_Little Sophie …_

She's a monster_, they had said._

_No! She__'__s as human as you are!_

But I only saw a brief flash of his face because Erik sprung up with the fury of an angry tiger. His arm swung around, and knocked me to the ground. It was cushioned by the thick Persian rugs, but I still felt the sting on my hip and elbow. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the utter shock of his vicious behaviour.

"Goddamn you, you lying bitch!" he choked out, an incensed cry. God, I had never seen Erik like this! He had always treated me with paternal affection and kindness. This rage was utterly new, frightening, and portending horrible violence. He leaned over me, with his arm cocked back. Trembling and cowering on the ground like a dog who had misbehaved, I braced myself against the impact should he choose to hit me. But none came. Fearfully, I opened my eyes.

Erik dropped his arm. Tears of hurt and shock rolled down my cheeks, but I couldn't speak. In a flash, I was seven years old once more, in the corridor of Notre Dame, my hand on the knob of the door marked, "Quarantine."

Like lightening, Erik's intense wrath drained away quickly. In its place was a sort of grief that I knew most personally. He knelt with the air of the hopeless beside me, but far enough that I couldn't touch him; his hand was stubbornly placed over the right side of his face.

"Oh, Christine …" he said so softly I strained to hear. "Why? Why did you have to see?" He didn't look at me when he continued, interspersed with quiet sobs. "I thought it wouldn't matter to you … that you could see the man behind the monster … behind this loathsome face …"

He kept his hand pressed against the deformed half, but pitifully held out his hand for the mask. The uncovered eye that met mine was shining with tears of shame and regret.

"Erik, I—" I stubbornly refused to give him the mask. How could I tell him he didn't need to hide from me? I started uncertainly, "You know so much about me … why did _you_ get to keep secrets?"

"Give it back," he whimpered. I was astonished. Gone was the powerful, confident man I had come to know here at the house beyond the lake. Like a frightened child, he was pleading with me. I blinked away my tears and pushed the mask into his outstretched hand. He turned his back to me, a gesture that made my throat close with desolation.

"I think it's time you went back," Erik said grimly, pressing the mask back into place, pulling its thin wire back around his head.

"Wait." I stood up. "There were some things I never told the Angel of Music, you know."

"Like what?"

"Before I came here, I spent a few years in an orphanage, Erik. Notre Dame des Fleuves. It was a sad, dingy little place full of unwanted kids with illnesses. One of the little girls there...God, she couldn't have been five... her name was Sophie. She had leprosy. Erik...she literally didn't have a nose, and her lips were rotting away. No one except her nurse could look her in the face."

"Did you?" he asked quietly.

"I—" I looked away, shamed. "She was dying, and she was asleep."

Erik stared at the ground, lost in his thoughts for a moment. Suddenly possessed by a bold idea, I approached him, and shyly laid my hands on his shoulders. Acting with a foolish bravado, I leaned my head against his chest in a shy embrace. I pulled back to look into his eyes, and saw disbelief merged with a sort of strangled hope. In that instant, I felt my heart flutter with a rush of emotions. Pity, empathy, and a crushing longing.

Then Erik shrank back from my hesitant touch, looking tortured by his inner turmoil; ravenous desire and bitterest rejection. Either way terrified us both. At length he said emotionlessly, "We must return. You've been gone for a fortnight."

We crossed the lake in the gondola shrouded in pregnant silence. Even as we made our way back up the vast ramps and corridors, we spoke not a word to each other. And, this time, there was nothing magical and glowing in the cramped passageway behind my mirror.

"Good-bye, Christine," Erik said stonily as I stepped down from the frame into my abandoned workshop. He pressed his hands against the backside of the mirror and began to slide it shut with an inexorable certitude.

I stared at the cruel, empty glass that revealed nothing but a lost young woman.

Ignoring the tears that threatened to spill again, my lips parted, and I whispered, "I'm sorry."


	10. Magical Lasso

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_MAGICAL LASSO_

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_

**A lump of unshed tears constricted my throat**. My breathing was shallow and ragged; my eyes burned. But I clenched my fists in fierce determination.

I will not cry. I will not cry. _I will not cry …_

From somewhere deep inside, I found my self-discipline, and pushed the tears down. I regulated my breathing, straightened up, and resolutely surveyed my room.

It was just as I'd left it, in organised shambles. None of my works had been touched, no needles or pins out of place. But I knew what was missing.

Claire. My sweet, sunny canary Petite Claire Jaune's silver cage was missing from its hook in the corner. The room was hauntingly silent without her cheery song.

I sighed; only one person would have taken her. Meg Giry.

Thinking of Meg filled me with guilt; I'd treated her so horribly that last night we had met. I owed her an apology, first and foremost. She would have taken Claire to her mother's flat, on the other side of the opera house.

It was still very early in the morning, probably just before dawn. There were likely few stirring in the theatre yet. I listened, but heard nothing. Casting a wary but pained glance at the impassive mirror, I strode to my changing screen, and dressed in the nearest clean frock, a thing of charcoal grey homespun with no frills and a modest cut. It was very much like all of the dresses I owned—so different from the lavish concoctions of thread that Erik had provided.

_Erik …_

I paused as I was tying my maroon apron over the simple skirt. Just the thought of him—angel, father, phantom—conjured a whirlwind of emotions so vast and varied I was unsure how I truly felt about him. These, too, I pushed away, at least for the moment. I rummaged for a scrap of ribbon and tied my forelocks back. A few locks of hair fell forward, so I tucked them behind my ears.

Madame Giry lived near the ballet dormitory, where my mother had spent her youth, upstairs. That meant I had a few flights of stairs to climb. With resignation, I fetched my braces, and fastened them onto my legs. Then, I found my worn day boots and slipped them on. I grabbed my cane, and carefully opened the door. I poked my head out the threshold, but no one was there.

I exited my workshop, and quietly shut the door and locked it. Putting the key into my pocket, I hurried along the Opéra's corridors with the expertise of long tenure. I climbed a narrow cast iron spiral stair case slowly. Spiral stairs, while beautiful, were treacherous for me. I clung to the hand rail, refusing to look down. I made it to the correct floor without incident.

The hallway was narrow, dreadfully so. When I heard heavy footsteps coming toward me, I glanced up and saw Joseph Buquet. He was the chief scene-shifter, balding and bearded, and had always seemed to be a harmless old man. I always treated him with the same passive deference everyone received from me. But it seemed he had been drinking … and things were about to change.

"Well well well … the Opéra's new star had returned," he sneered unpleasantly.

"Please let me pass, monsieur," I said politely. Buquet only gave me a mocking bow.

"As you wish, mademoiselle." But he didn't budge.

"Let me pass," I snarled. I did not have the patience to deal with a drunkard this morning!

"Yes, prima donna! The world will bend to your will!" he said sarcastically. "You little crippled birdie … no one would care if you lay drowned at the bottom of the Seine."

I held my head high, hoping he wouldn't see how deeply that had hurt.

"No one … except perhaps the Ghost!" he mocked, leaning close enough for me to smell the alcohol odour that emanated from him. I prayed that he wouldn't touch me …

"Let her be," came an icy command. We both turned, and saw Marie-Louise Giry standing outside her door, glaring like a cat about to attack. Surprisingly, Buquet obeyed without a word. I rushed blindly over to the ballet mistress who guided me inside her apartment deftly. She gave Buquet a few choice parting words that would have made me snicker if I wasn't so shaken.

The gas lamps were on, giving a soft glow. I'd always loved Madame's flat, with its cosy clutter and memorabilia from her time as a dancer—toe shoes, costumes hanging on the walls, programmes that bore her name in the listing of the _corps de ballet_. She shut the door securely, and gestured to a seat. I sat down.

"Did he hurt you?" Madame Giry demanded with her trademark sharpness.

"No," I said as steadily as possible. "Buquet only—"

"Not Buquet," she cut me off. "Tell me: did he harm you in any way?"

"Madame?" A piercing epiphany was cutting its way through the fog of confusion: She knew!

"You _know_, child. Erik. What has he done to you?"

"I—" I stammered, eyes wide. "Nothing. We—we studied music, and—"

"The Vicomte de Chagny said he saw you in the Bois de Boulogne with a stranger. Is that true?"

"Yes," I whispered miserably. "I was there."

"Erik is a very dangerous man, Christine. You don't know what he is capable of, if his temper is roused—"

_But I do_, I thought, wincing at the recollection of Erik's violent, enraged curses.

"—or what he wants from you—"

_Did I? _

Without warning, all the tears I had suppressed that morning broke through my last barrier. My face crumpled like a tissue, and the tears came hard, hot and salty. They dripped off my chin and nose in a most ungraceful fashion, making spots on my apron. I pressed a fist to my eyes, but I couldn't stop the sobs that now wracked my chest. I hunched over in the chair, covering my face with my hands.

"Oh, my dear Christine," Madame Giry murmured, holding me as though I were still a child.

And I hated it. I _hated _myself! Hated that I couldn't have hidden my pain better, so that no one in the world could have found it. My mask had come loose.


	11. Notes

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_NOTES_

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_He couldn't have asked for a more perfect autumn day to walk the dusty roads of the French countryside. The air was fresh and cool, the sun mild and warm, and the earth beneath his feet gentle, almost welcoming. The trees were aflame with brilliant colour, ginger, garnet, and gold. Gustave Daaé turned as he felt a small tug on his hand. _

_Christine was walking—shuffling uneasily—beside him, eyes downcast, in her warmest long-sleeved navy blue dress, and black wool beret. Lotte's red scarf was looped around her throat many times, the tangled fringe swaying. _

"_Christine? What is it?"_

"Rien_, Papa. Nothing. I—I just tripped, that's all." A shameful flush crept up her ordinarily pallid, round cheeks. A few sloppy twists of her sandy hair drooped down around her neck, mingling with the red chenille. Despite her best efforts, her limp right foot caught on a sharp stone, and she stumbled again. _

_Gustave stopped. He slung his battered violin case across his back, over his ragged black opera cape. He picked his beloved, malformed daughter up against her ever-increasing weight, and carried her for a while in his arms, a warm burden. The trees, in spite of their bright foliage, regarded him solemnly. _

"_Papa? Where are we going?" She had such a pretty little voice, he thought to himself. Soft and tender, but clear as a note from a harp. _

"_Paris, _mon petit coeur_."_

"_Why?" He dreaded that question; the answer was so very simple, but the simplest answers are often the most devastating._

_He only sighed in return. She let the question go unanswered and wrapped one pudgy arm around his shoulder, with the unspoken words, _Je t'aime, Papa._ He noted with regret that her thick woolen stockings had a growing hole in the left knee. Pain pulsed through his thin chest; and he knew this winter would be terribly hard on his unfortunate daughter. _

**After taking a cup of soothing tea in Madame Giry's flat**, I charily lifted Claire's silver cage from the hook by the only window. She sang cheerily and hopped from side to side on her swing, her little eyes shining. I smiled, and took her back to the workshop, pretending that I didn't feel like I was being watched. I made my steps cautiously down to the main level without encountering anyone who would have spoken to me. I was right glad. I scurried along like one of the mice in the theatre, my head bowed, and my slippers making only my characteristic shuffle on the wood floors. I didn't know what I would have said if they asked me where I'd been for the past two weeks; everyone believed in the Phantom, but only as a fearsome spectre. I doubt anyone would have accepted as true my tenure with a real, living man beneath the great auditorium. But, all the same, no one was really looking for me, or worried about me. Perhaps Buquet was right; maybe I was worthless, maybe no one _would_ have cared if I disappeared for good.

I slipped as quietly as possible back into my own room, shutting the door firmly behind me. I set Claire's cage back in its corner, and changing her seeds and water dishes generously. After that, I took a deep breath, and resolved to look for Meg. I owed her an apology first and foremost, for the way I had treated her the last night night.

It wasn't quite mid-morning. The ballet girls should all be warming up for morning practise in the upper salon. Cane in hand, I hobbled across corridors, up stairs, and found the room, lined with large windows, warmed by summery daybreak sunlight. The lasses were chattering among themselves, dressed in their plainer tutus and worn in toe shoes, their hair braided or swept back by ribbons. They were laughing and prattling about their handsome or wealthy suitors, their pretty new costumes, and who was at odds with whom. Yet a decent amount of them seemed to all be listening to petite, dark-haired Rochelle Jammes. As I crept closer, I caught a snippet of her high, fluty voice:

"—like death itself! All tight and yellow as a drumhead, and you can't see his eyes, save in the dark, where they shine like a demons'—"

It didn't register in my mind for a few seconds what they were gossiping about. A demon-eyed death's head … the Phantom of the Opera …

I smiled despondently, and made my less-than-dramatic entrance. A soft tap of my cane on the floor turned all of the girls to attention. But seeing only me, they went on with their buzz of talk. Only one blinked, stared, then barreled over and nearly knocked me to the ground with a joyful hug.

"Christine!" Meg cried with the alacrity of a puppy, her flaxen locks falling out of the smooth, elegant dancer's bun.

I hugged her back, grateful to have Meg Giry as my friend. She was like a ray of sunshine that chased away my previous doubts. It felt so good to know that if anyone cared about my fate, she did. We began to speak ardently over each other. "Meg, Meg, I'm so sorry—"

"_I'm_ sorry, it was your triumph; I was being_ si_ _méchante_—"

"No, no, _ma chère sœur_—"

"I was so _worried!_" she broke in bluntly, but not unkindly. "I mean, I knew where you were, but—"

"What?" I said, startled.

"Maman told me what happened," she said in a whisper. "Wi—with, you know. _Him_."

I furrowed my brows, trying to decide what to say to her. Luckily, at that precise moment, Madame Giry entered, in her signature black gown, slender and imperious with her erect posture. She rapped her cane on the floor harshly, and Meg leaped to join the rest of the ballerinas standing gracefully in a straight line along the barre, still as Edgar Degas' statues. "I better go," I said finally, awkwardly.

Back at the workshop, I found a pale pink gown covered in many layers of lace, ruffles, and floral appliqués hanging on a hook next to the door; there was a note pinned to the intricate bodice, from Joséphine. In her squat, square hand, she berated my unannounced absence (because she resented having the bulk of the premier costume arranging), and sent me my new project, refitting the silk _Il Muto_ costume for La Carlotta.

Joséphine's note then took a strange turn; she mentioned that this morning, she had borne witness to a drama of sorts in the managers' office. "Our new managers, messieurs Andre and Firmin, were baffled by the Phantom's demands. Apparently the Ghost wants you to star tonight, but when La Carlotta threatened to return _à l'Italie_, the managers begged her to stay. She has won the role of the Countess. And you, my dear, are secondary assistant seamstress once more. I think your operatic career is over."

Once more I remembered Erik's words, his promise that that role would be mine. And at the moment, I felt foreboding come like a volatile storm cloud, still and serene, but _plein de danger. _

Signora Guidicelli's tailoring measurements were listed on the note. Carlotta, our resident spoiled diva, was beautiful and cold-blooded as a lizard. Flawless olive skin, sculpted features, auburn hair with a satin sheen, and a shapely figure. But for all her physical exquisiteness, she had a revolting attitude. But Erik had reassured me that her voice was less than mediocre at best, and shrill far too often; she over-acted, even with the melodrama of opera, it was usually too much. He had told me she was better suited for the stage as a clown than a soprano.

I sighed, and dragged the fancy garment inside. Quickly lighting a few lamps and candles, I sat down at my table, took out a length of matching pink silk, and let out the seams. With strips of fine strong stitches, soon the gown was fit for a queen. Or a Countess. Or just a domineering prima donna.

I yawned. It had been a long day already. I had awoken very early this morning in a boat-shaped bed covered with velvet, deep underground. Now, I was facing a hard chair in the corner of a cold room.

My cluttered chamber of tailoring scraps and unfinished costumes seemed so foreign now. Just a fortnight ago, it seemed as though this would be my future. I would have several more decades of sewing garments until my hand could no longer hold the needle. Now, that middling mirage had vanished, and I could see no sure future before me anymore. Nothing was certain to me any longer.

Flexing the tired fingers of my left hand, I folded my arms, lay my head down wearily, and shut my eyes. Just for a few minutes ….

I gasped, and opened my eyes. There was an unfamiliar weight across my back. I sat up and looked in the mirror across from my seat. There was a red mark from where my cheek rested against my forearm, and my hair was disheveled. But wrapped around my shoulders was a thick black blanket of wool—no, it was softer; it must have cashmere. When I felt the silk lining, I started. Sure enough, on the end nearest my left arm, was the high collar. I had slept swathed in Erik's elegant cloak.

Clasping it with my hand at the neck, I lifted my head. The mirror stood with all its glassy vacuity.

No one beckoned me this time, but I resolved to pass through it again.


	12. Prima Donna

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_PRIMA DONNA_

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Neither November mist nor candelabras' glow greeted me as I carefully slid the mirror to the side. It was surprisingly difficult to move, and I grunted in exertion, but when at last I'd pushed it out of the way, a blast of cold air hit my face—very cold, for the lazy late July afternoon. I clutched Erik's cloak tighter; I'd had to wear it lengthwise, or the hem would drag mercilessly, as it was tailored exactly to his towering height. 

Taking a deep breath, I stepped up and over the gilded filigree frame. I wore only my thin leather indoor slippers, and the cold reached its icy tendrils up from the stone floor. This morning, the narrow corridor had been dark and forbidding, and it seemed far more threatening now that I was alone.

It was so dark in the distance that I faltered. What was I doing? I knew it was an immense labyrinth below. Surely I'd get myself lost down there for days, if I could not find Erik. Wandering the dark passages, or drowning in the lake. The instinctive fear of the unknown threatened to overturn this foolish plan.

But it's not entirely unknown, a part of my mind argued; she was confident and persuasive—I listened to her. You've spend a fortnight there. Surely it cannot be so difficult. Just bring a lantern.

Of course. I turned around, and fetched a light lantern from my desk. It was small, and the glass protected a delicate flame that danced and swayed as I resumed my course steadily down the corridor. Steadily, and quickly enough to not think. At the end of the narrow hall, it opened instantly to a larger chamber. I paused, my mind racing.

"E-Erik?" I called out, my voice no more than a pathetic, tiny whisper. Louder, I cried, "Erik!"

But the only reply in the silent darkness was a faint, mocking echo of my own shouts.

"Oh God," I murmured in distress, swallowing each sob as it rose in my throat. I held my lantern up, letting it illuminate the impassive stone walls; I cautiously took a step in what seemed to be the right direction. Then another. I strained my memory for landmarks that might have guided me on the path to the house beyond the lake.

The staircase. Yes, that was the next passage. But which way was it?

As I contemplated my orientation, I suddenly realised that what I had dismissed as an imaginary humming sound was actually a bizarre and lovely music. It was coming from the right, a distant sound like harmonising voices, or was it only one? Nonetheless, I followed it without question through the immense labyrinth to the edge of the lake's leaden waters. There, I dropped to my knees, and bent low over the shore.

I stared dreamily at the round face with blotchy skin in the gently rippling waters. I could hear the singing more clearly now, just below the surface of the water. If I could just listen underwater, it would be amazing … A chorus of mermaids swimming around the grandeur of Poseidon himself.

A violent splash from a short distance away ripped my reflection apart, and the siren's song ended abruptly. I gasped, jerking away from the water. Frightened, I looked up to see Erik standing knee-deep in the lake, completely soaked; clutching what looked like a bent reed in one hand. Had I not been so utterly shocked, I would have laughed at such a ludicrous sight.

"What are you doing here, Christine?" Erik demanded sharply, water dripping from his dark hair, across the white surface of the mask, from his chin, and clothes.

"Me?" I echoed stupidly. "I—looking for you."

He walked toward me through the lake, squeezing excess water from his once-fine evening suit. Sliding the reed discreetly into his coat pocket, he looked at me and asked quietly, "Why?"

"This is yours," I said simply, pulling his cloak from my shoulders and holding it out to him. "Thank you."

"You're shivering," he said, as though he wasn't dripping wet himself, and pushed it gently back toward me.

I sighed, and then ventured, "Erik … what _was_ that?"

He didn't answer, only saying evasively, "I'll get the boat. Wait here."

I stared at the water, terrified, for a moment before blurting out, "No, let's stay here."

He glanced at me, lifting his visible eyebrow. I added matronly, "Here, take your cloak so you won't catch cold."

I saw a puzzled surprise in his mismatched eyes, as though he was baffled by my concern for his health. I gathered the rich cape in folds, and held it out at arm's length to him. He stepped out of the water completely, giving each foot a small shake, like a tiger after bathing. His hands brushed mine as he took it back, gratefully swinging it back, and letting it fall gracefully onto his damp shoulders.

"_Merci_."

I nodded silently, unsure and conflicted inside. I had deduced the meaning of Erik's sudden and strange appearance from the lake. Like any animal, he had to protect his territory; I had the feeling that other intruders to Erik's lair would meet the fatal Siren, and not find Poseidon's Choir.

Unaware of or ignoring my growing apprehension, Erik sighed and said patronisingly, "You should go back up, Christine. Tonight's production will be starting in less than a half-hour. You must be prepared for the lead."

I pursed my lips unhappily. I struggled against my feelings of being a discontent schoolgirl or a rebellious child; I was neither—I was a woman now convinced that I had to take the reins of my own life, in the face of my apprehension. Thinking of Claire's lonely life in the corner of my workshop, I thought to myself, a caged bird can only sing for so long without her liberty.

"Carlotta is playing lead tonight; and Hélène Desjardins is the Page Boy," I said neutrally. Joséphine had mentioned this casting coup in her letter.

"Not for much longer," he replied with a smirk. "You know the role of the Countess well, and the audience will hardly notice the slight weakness in your mid-range."

"I don't want to sing tonight," I muttered, eyes downcast. I folded my hands awkwardly in front of me, my sweating palms against the dull homespun skirt. But I was pleased that my conviction wasn't wavering.

"You will do as I say, Christine." Unmistakable authority had crept into his tone, as displeasure settled over his face. Half of it.

"Everyone obeys your every whim, Erik," I said slowly. "But not me. I'm not ready, and I don't like this opera. I won't perform in _Il Muto_ tonight. I'm not a canary who'll sing when you rattle my cage."

I sensed impending danger, but I stood my ground as he strode toward me and gripped my shoulders tightly. Bringing his masked face close to mine, he whispered, "You foolish child. I've put so much work into your achievement—I know when you're ready for the stage. But you want to run away, don't you? You're making excuses, Christine."

I bristled, and considered my next words. For just a moment I thought to stop them, but the urge to lash out was too strong. "Excuses? _I'm_ running away? What about _you?_ _You're_ the one living in a hole in the ground like a mole! You're a coward, Erik! You're afraid of them—you use me as a mask, just as much as the one on your face right now."

It hurt him. I knew it did, but all he did was angrily push me away. I stumbled backward, but kept my balance; I took this as an omen.

"I don't have a choice, Christine."

"You always have a choice; but whether you have the courage to make it is the question. And I'm making mine—Carlotta is going to star tonight, not me."

"You're so ignorant, child." His voice, abandoning the mellifluous honeyed tones I'd grown accustomed to, was an incensed half-growl. "You can't just desert my plans—"

"This is your prison, Erik, not mine. I don't need to stay here—Good-bye, Erik." I spun on my heel, and trounced away, head held high. I did not look back as I found my way back to the workshop, and shut the mirror behind me decisively. I wore a fine veneer of apathy as I methodically left the room and checked with Joséphine, a thin girl with dusty hair a few years older than I. She assured me that La Carlotta's gown fit the pretentious diva, and that nearly all was in order for the opera, which was due to start in fifteen minutes. I nodded curtly and rushed back to my chamber.

"_Christine!_"God! It seemed as though everyone was calling my name today! I reached for the doorknob, intending to rudely snub whoever was now running toward me. But when a hand in a cream-coloured glove was laid across my upper arm, I turned.

Raoul was staring at me strangely, with a mix of disbelief and concern etched on his youthful, handsome face. He was dressed for the opera, in his tailored black tuxedo, starched dress shirt, polished shoes, and off-white fringed scarf, with his sandy chestnut hair neatly combed.

"What's wrong, Raoul?" I said nonchalantly, my gaze fastened in the doorknob.

"What's _wrong_?" he repeated emphatically, brows raised. "Christine—you _disappeared_ for two weeks! No one knew where you were."

"No one knew; no one cared," I replied evenly, opening the door.

"Christine." He refused to let me go, giving my arm a gentle squeeze. "_Attends_, please—Wait."

"What?" I said irritably.

"I—" He blushed diffidently, then rushed on, "_Mon Dieu,_ I was so worried about you! I thought you might have been killed! Philippe and I were due to take a trip to Britain, but I stayed; and then, that night I saw you in the Bois—"

"That wasn't me," I lied flatly. "You must have been mistaken."

"No," he said with a boldness that made me cringe. "I know your face." Matching this statement, he reached out, and drew his gloved fingertips lightly across my rough cheek.

"Raoul," I said quietly but firmly. "Things have changed. Please just go to your seat tonight and forget me."

"I can't," he protested gallantly. "Christine, I—" He paused, then continued, "I care about you a lot. There's something going on, and it concerns me."

"_Oublie-le_!" I said sternly, and pulled away from his touch. "Forget it!"

"All right," he consented sadly. "As you wish. But if you ever need me, Christine, remember that I am here for you." Involuntarily, my throat ached as I watched him walk away, back toward the auditorium, the lush world of red velvet and gilded sculpture, so very different from the exposed timber beams and rough, cast-iron stairwells here backstage.

He only wants to help, part of my mind said sadly.

Shut up, I told it rudely. I don't need Raoul's help. I don't need anyone. Now, I just need to make it through tonight's performance, and tomorrow things will be better.

I tied a fresh apron around my waist, the pockets full of sewing supplies, grabbed my cane, and lumbered toward the wings of the stage. It was in an agitated, incensed, and guilt-ridden state of mind that I waited for the overture of _Il Muto_, and its aftermath.

I wished with all my heart to believe that tomorrow would be better.

I knew I was lying to myself.


	13. Il Muto

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* * *

_

_IL MUTO_

* * *

"_Why don't you go out and play with the de Chagny boy?" Gustave asked his daughter one night as she sat quietly playing with her only doll, a ragtag thing of cloth scraps with dirty cotton yarn hair and one leg and arm shorter than the others. She smoothed the doll's new kelly green dress trimmed with Irish lace, and her fingers slowly strayed to the bent right arm. _

"_I don't ... want ... to," she said softly. Christine rarely spoke above her ordinary, gravely timid tone. She ran her finely-made fingers through Angélique's tangled yarn hair, humming thinly, as muted as a mosquito's wings. _

"_He comes every afternoon, Christine. Why don't you just speak to him instead of hiding in the loft?"_

_Her ashen cheeks grew pink; she turned her back to him, but he saw her clutch the doll's short arm tightly. "I don't like him, Papa. He stared at me."_

"_Maybe he likes you," he cooed, hoping to crack her iron-strong shell. Christine was developing a disconcerting habit of isolation. True, it was rude how people stared at her when she walked, or fixed their gazes on her garish leg braces, but she was retreating further and further into herself. Gustave was worried about her. _

_The boy was polite and persistent, and he wished to befriend her. Perhaps he did like her. _

_Still refusing to face him, she said over her shoulder, painfully blunt, "Nobody likes me, Papa. I'm _different_."_

"_Christine!" he responded immediately, surprised at her cynicism, putting down the dish he'd been drying. She was far too young to say such things! He strode toward her and embraced her, feeling how tense her small shoulders had been, squared and determined. "I love you, _ma fille_, no matter how different you are than everyone else. And don't you ever say nobody doesn't, _tu comprends_?"_

"Oui_, Papa," she answered in a whisper. _

"_Now, won't you talk to him tomorrow?"_

_He saw her bitterly-twisted expression soften, and she sighed, but just as he expected her to give in, she wrenched herself out his arms and fled up the ladder to the loft, flinging her response behind her:_

"Non!_"_

_Gustave shook his head. His little daughter had a stubborn streak as long and difficult as the Scandinavian coastline. _

Truthfully, I detested this shallow-minded, comical Italian opera. During our time together, Erik had told me that he had wanted the start the season with Gounod's _Faust_, to show off my strong upper register with the Final Prison Trio. But when Andre and Firmin settled into their office, they immediately plucked out a new itinerary. I recalled the one night as I sat by the fire, and listened to him complain at the obvious lack of musical familiarity of the two junk dealers. Of course the uncouth Italian comedies would be abundant, "the sort of thing the public loves," they had congratulated themselves. Erik had laughed mockingly, and so had I.

But I had left Erik behind me in bitter anger. Deep inside, some part of me knew I had hurt him very deeply; and from that place guilt was seeping drop by drop, like a small cut of a main artery. But my pride was so great, all I could do was smooth my own feathers and wait.

The intricately-embroidered and ruffled pink gown looked beautiful on Carlotta, but the glint in the diva's eyes was one of a swollen queen bee. She fit the role of ostentatious, adulterous noblewoman like a glove, I thought dryly. A huge powdered wig and brash makeup only added to the effect. I felt truly sorry for Hélène Desjardins, who had to pretend to be in love with her. Hélène seemed to be a friendly member of the chorus, a good actress, and looked charming in her striped Serafimo breeches and lace blouse.

_Poor fool, he makes me laugh, ha ha ha ha ha!_

La Carlotta was in her element, trilling her amused laughter into piercing high notes. She flung out her arm, and the Page Boy pecked kisses up her arm; she snapped her lace fan open just in time to conceal their faces as they met.

_Poor fool, he doesn't know, oh ho ho ho ho!_

I smiled as I met Meg's eyes; she was adorable in her attendant costume, like a maid, her golden hair curled beneath a lace cap. She flashed me a brief grin—I knew she was excited to have an individual part, instead of being just a member of a row.

_If he knew the truth, he'd never ever go!_

No one expected what would happen next. I shoved my hands into my pockets and looked down at the floor.

_Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be left empty?_

The very crystals of the imposing chandelier trembled at the sound of the voice, a booming sound like thunder that echoed all throughout the auditorium as it fell silent for a moment. I gasped, instantly recognising the voice, despite the inhuman power and ominous tone. I craned my neck to peer up at Box Five, as far as I dared without being seen by anyone in the audience. My stomach dropped when I saw Raoul seated there, looking about himself nervously. I turned around, thinking quickly. I needed to get up to Box Five and convince Raoul to leave. Once he was gone, heartbroken, if need be, I had to find Erik, wherever _he_ was. My pride protested, but I decided with finality and chagrin to apologise, and at least try to make peace with him. But just as I began to head toward the back stairwell, I heard a bizarre noise from the stage.

Carlotta began to croak! Croak like the toad she was beneath that polished affectation of beauty. Nobody could resist snickering, and soon, it grew to a cacophony of hilarity. I must admit, I laughed heartily at her distress. But above the audience's amusement, another sound rose sharply. This time, the voice was everywhere! But he didn't speak, he _laughed_! It was a mad, wicked laugh that reverberated around us all. It caused Carlotta's distressed shrieks to rise higher, a supplication in Italian toward the managers' box. Escorted by Piangi, she rushed off the stage in melodramatic-but-authentic paroxysms of tears. The curtains _swooshed_ closed with a heavy, velvety sound, and Meg scuttled over to me, and took my hand silently.

Messieurs Andre and Firmin bumbled onstage, awkwardly attempting to sooth the blasé, chattering patrons. I listened little to their improvisations, looking to see if Raoul was still in the box. Seeing the chandelier's glow on his chestnut hair, I focused uninterestedly on the managers.

"The—the role of the Countess will be played by …um … Mlle Christine Daaé," Monsieur Firmin stuttered. My eyes widened, and Meg squeezed my hand.

I turned to her and said, "Why? I'm not even her understudy!"

"Christine," she said slowly, "In the Phantom's notes this morning, he demanded you be cast in this role. He even threatened Carlotta not to perform tonight."

"What?" I whispered. "I didn't know—"

Andre and Firmin pushed through the heavy curtains, looking worried and unhappy. The stage hands, actors, dancers, and other staff members like myself began hurrying back and forth, changing the set to the Act Three country glade. Meg dashed away to change into her sylvan nymph ballet costume. I approached Firmin, beginning earnestly, "Monsieur, I'm not—"

With a disdainful glare, he rattled, "You will start from the middle of Act I, Mademoiselle, or will find yourself out of a job, and on the street. Now get dressed; _dépêche-toi_!"

I gaped. He was threatening me. But just then, Joséphine grabbed my arm, and brusquely handed me the Countess gown. Begrudgingly, I went to Carlotta's dressing room. Catherine, the meek young dresser, entered and worked quickly, with nimble fingers; she removed my humble apron and work dress, leaving me in my corset and chemise. I wrapped my arms around myself modestly as she turned and reached for the components of the costume. Catherine hastily laced up the back of the under dress' frilly bodice over the underskirt, very full beneath the hoopskirt. She was fastening the final buttons on the skirt when we heard an uproar of voices erupt backstage. Catherine slipped out, curious at the commotion. I waited, my mind racing.

Something had disrupted the ballet. I heard a series of shrieks and screams before a more general sound of people chattering excitedly, exclamations of distress, of disgust.

What was going on? I wondered. The base of my costume was on, so I cracked my door open, but hastily shut it. My heart stopped, and then started beating wildly.

The image that I saw only for a moment was burned into my memory forever. They were carrying him out on a makeshift stretcher. His puffy, mottled face was distended, the lips parted, as though he was about to speak. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, with, as my fevered mind imagined, an accusatory stare.

_What have you done, Little Songbird, Christine? Christine!_

"Christine!"

I gasped. Raoul called my name urgently through the door. I flung my light, mint green cloak over my shoulders and hastily clasped it at the throat, and pulled the hood over my head. I opened the door, and he took me by the arms. "Christine, are you all right?"

I nodded, and he added breathlessly, "Come with me."

"No," I retorted, resisting his tugs on my wrists. "I need to tell you something. No one will hear us on the roof—follow me!"

I saw the dead man's glassy eyes locked on mine as I stumbled up the creaking stairwells and passed upper-floor workstations, now abandoned. I didn't know Joseph Buquet well, save for our unsavoury encounter this morning; I still couldn't forget his horrible breath and insulting manners as he confronted me this morning. But only minutes earlier he had been breathing. Now he was dead. Maybe he deserved to die, but something crushing was tightening inside of me.

Guilt. I'd left Erik with anger and loathing; that must have boiled over somewhere in the flies. Now Joseph Buquet was dead, and his death hung heavily around my neck, like a noose tied to a weight that would drag me down and drown me.


	14. Why Have You Brought Us Here

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* * *

_

_WHY HAVE YOU BROUGHT US HERE_

* * *

**I stumbled once more on the creaking and groaning stairs** that led up to the rooftop of the Opera House. The toe of my worn brown boot had caught beneath the open step. I grunted, lurching forward; I caught my balance haphazardly, and straightened up, carefully gathering the vast lacy skirts and the threadbare hem of my cloak. I threw a pressing glance backward.

Still impeccably dressed, Raoul was following me closely, climbing the uneven stairs with much more ease and considerable grace than I would ever be able to muster. "Christine, why the roof? These stairs are utterly treacherous!"

"Yes they are," I agreed distractedly. Every miniscule sound in every dark corner, every slight movement in my periphery vision, stirred a fresh dose of adrenal panic. "But we're almost there."

I found the aging door to the western rooftop, shoved it open hurriedly, and promptly fell down a short flight of steps to the rough surface, landing with a heavy _thud_. My entire right side stung sorely, particularly my knee, hip, and shoulder; even my cheek had hit the ground. I released a colourful curse under my breath, a surly habit adopted from some of the other backstage workers. Fortunately, Raoul didn't hear me.

He crept down the three steps carefully, and rushed to my side. "_Mon Dieu_, Christine, are you all right? Are you hurt?"

I shook my head stubbornly. My stinging flesh would bruise over in hours, turning outrageous shades of black, blue, violet, and purple, before the sickly yellow that meant my body was mending itself for the thousandth time in twenty years. It was resilient.

He helped me up, asking me at least a half a dozen times more if I was unhurt. I assured him each time that I was fine. I clutched his arm for a bit, to steady myself, berating myself for forgetting my cane. When I carefully put pressure on my right leg, pain shot up its length, and I drew in a breath too quickly. It hurt, but not fatally. I steeled myself, and then broke away from him, to take a few cautious steps toward the edge, my minor limp more pronounced.

"Listen to me, Raoul," I said keenly. "I have to tell you the truth. About Joseph Buquet—"

"It was an accident," Raoul explained dismissively. "Either that, or the poor old man committed suicide."

"No!" I objected vehemently. "No, Raoul, he didn't. He was _murdered_."

"How do you know?"

"I know who did it. I know who took his life."

"Who?"

"The Opera Ghost."

Just as I'd expected, he laughed jovially, thinking that I'd made a jolly good joke. I waited until he opened his eyes again and saw the bleak graveness of my expression in the cold, dim light, a combination of the Paris city lights, the glow of the chandeliers inside, and the many glittering stars.

Finally, he found his tongue again, and said quietly, "You … you're serious, aren't you?"

"Quite," I replied archly, finding cynical, bad humour to wrap around myself like the pale green cloak that covered my bare arms. "But it's not as it seems, Raoul."

"Then tell me."

"He—He's not a real ghost," I began, finding it surprisingly difficult—and painful—to summarise the truth about Erik. "He's a man. He lives beyond the lake underneath the Opera House; I've been there. It's his face …"

"What? What about his face?"

Instead of being able to answer Raoul directly, something happened that was completely unexplainable. In my mind, I heard an entire twisted chorus of people that I'd encountered in my lifetime, a cacophony of discord: old ladies, other children, rude young men, cruel girls … all curious, spiteful, pitying, but shouting, murmuring, whispering, mocking_ … and all staring!_

_Why do you walk so funny? _

_What's wrong with your leg? _

_What's wrong with you? _

_God, what is_ wrong _with you?!_

And a lonely little girl said candidly, _Nobody likes me, Papa. I'm _different

I gasped for breath, a sob hitched in my throat. Above me, the stars twinkled and the moon glowed, paradoxical in their serenity.

"Why are you crying?" asked Raoul, troubled. He took a diffident step toward me.

"I—" I lifted my left hand, and upon pressing it to my coarse cheek, discovered tears. The sudden onslaught had severely perturbed me. In its wake, I felt like curling up in a dark corner with my arms wrapped around my head. _Leave me alone. _

"Christine?"

"It's hideous," I finished stiffly, repulsed by my own horrendous lie. "Horribly deformed."

I couldn't say any more on the subject—I felt like a true monster. I wrapped my arms around myself, digging my ragged nails into my flesh. But the minor physical pain paled in comparison to the inner storm that seemed about to tear me apart.

"Despite all his abilities, talents, and seeming powers of magic, he's … nothing but a man. But he can kill on a whim, and feel absolutely no remorse."

"He sounds dangerous," Raoul said, soothingly, just like a parent to a child upon waking from a nightmare. He didn't believe a word I had said.

"But …" My heart throbbed oddly. I struggled to put words to fluid, fleeting emotions. "There's more. There's something like—like a connection between us; sometimes a silver chain, sometimes a silk thread. When I look into his eyes, I-I lose my_self_. He doesn't see what's misshapen or broken in me, he sees what's _beautiful_; and I—"

"Christine," Raoul said tentatively, so delicately. "It sounds to me as though you're in love with him."

I blinked. Opened my mouth to speak, and then closed it. My feelings remained incoherent in the tightness in my chest. And al this time I had thought I was strong and decisive! I was nothing but disaster, a bloody mess. Why anyone would want to be near me was an absolute mystery in my mind.

"I don't know," I said finally.

"Are you certain?"

"Certain about not knowing?" I repeated dully, the barest glimmer of graveyard humour in my tone. I turned away from him.

I felt utterly craven; I knew I didn't have the courage of the Ethiopian slave princess Aïda, who chose to be entombed—and to die—with her lover. Erik had seen right through my foolishly brave, brash façade; I _was_ running away. But I couldn't hide up in the rustic loft of the house by the sea. There was no escape this time.

And then I felt Raoul's arms snake around my wide waist. Was I the prey? The victim of this story? Or was I orchestrating this opera toward a tragic end? I drew in a trembling breath, and it seemed the rest of the world did so as well. Or was it merely the despondent sighs of the warm wind?


	15. All I Ask of You

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* * *

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ALL I ASK OF YOU

* * *

"**You're speaking of madness, Christine,"** Raoul said calmly, pushing away everything I'd just said like silvery cobwebs. "There is no Phantom of the Opera. Only a myth." 

I shook my head angrily—how could I expect Raoul to understand? Raoul, of all people! Though we had believed in all sorts of things as children, ghosts, demons, _angels_ … but now he lived his life by logic and reason. He lived in a different world than mine. Did he think that I had kept these fantasy creatures alive to keep myself company? Perhaps I had spent most of my life alone, but I wasn't mad.

"I'm not—" I protested indignantly, but the sudden warmth of his body against mine cut my words short. He wrapped his arms around me and drew me close. I felt his warm breath on my bruised cheek; it almost hurt. I looked up at the stars again as they flickered their placid light down on us. _Like eyes._

"You don't have to live this, Christine," Raoul said gently, a note of buried seduction in his voice. "When we were children you said you wanted to be a princess when you grew up. Come away with me tonight, and you can be _my_ princess."

I had forgotten this. One day as we sat together in the sands, sculpting creatures and grand castle fortresses, he had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. And of course I had wanted what many young girls want; princesses were beautiful, loved and _happy_.

_Could_ I be happy? I asked myself critically. Raoul was sweet, generous, romantic, and handsome … the type of storybook prince many girls dream of in their youthful idealism. And who was I to deny that? I would be the Witch—the bitter old crone swathed in black with her broom and cat. I had resigned myself to becoming the fairy tale Witch at an early age, after Papa died, abandoning the Princess to starve in her tower. But she had not died, like I had hoped. She fluttered her white handkerchief expectantly as Raoul circled around to face me. I met his steady sea blue eyes reluctantly.

He took my right hand in his, forcibly removing the rose from my frail grip, and letting it drop to the sullied roof beneath our feet. Distress crossed my face, and I looked up at him, somehow offended. But he ran his thumb from the base of my own over the knuckle of my first finger. I could very well feel his pitying eyes run the length of my scarred hand, looking over each pinprick, scrape and cut. "You don't have to do this anymore. You don't have to sit alone in a tiny, dark room stitching by lamplight. You don't have to garner any more scars."

Did he mean the physical scars—the errors of my shears and needles? Or the invisible, permanent ones, deep beneath my skin? I couldn't be sure. But I summoned my pride to act as a shield.

"It's not that bad," I said defensively, scorning his pity, "really. What do you know of my life, Raoul? You shouldn't judge what you don't know."

He seemed taken aback momentarily. I lifted my untidy eyebrow at him, and shook my head disdainfully.

"_T'as raison_," he relented. "From what I've seen, you're a wonderful seamstress."

I tilted my head and moved to turn away.

"Well, what about your—ah, condition?" He sounded slightly desperate, like a fisherman desperate to bring in an elusive catch.

"What? What do you mean?" I froze, half-turned.

"Well, everyone has assumed it is permanent, yes? But what if it isn't? Medicine is not what it used to be, Christine. Why, I'm sure with the proper resources and expertise, you can be cured—you could _be_ _normal_."

My mouth dropped open. Part of me was outright outraged at his suggestion: _how dare he even say such a thing? _But another was buoyant with hope; I was tired of being an outcast, no matter how proud I was; at some level, we all want to be accepted. I saw myself dressed in fine blue silks, walking with the graceful poise of a real lady. Sitting with magnificent posture beside Raoul at a gala performance, without a trace of these awful leg braces or a cane at my side. Watching La Carlotta and La Sorelli grovel at my equally-positioned feet. Strolling easily with Raoul in the Tuileries, beneath the brilliant, golden sunlight. Perhaps even … dancing? Dancing as my mother once did ….

My will to resist was decaying before my very eyes. _No!_

"Just come with me," he crooned, his brows lifted in supplication. "You've been so strong, Christine, but aren't you tired of it? I can take care of you."

"You can't _possibly_ comprehend what you're asking me to do," I sighed.

"All I ask is that you leave with me tonight. I really do care about you, Christine." Even in my tempestuous state, I was touched by his sincerity.

This was my cherished childhood dream, but at what cost? As a little girl, things were so simple, and now they were so complicated! It wasn't at all the way I had anticipated. Along the way, things have changed so much, and some things were long-lost. I looked down miserably at Mama's gold ring in the light of the moon, a simple but beautiful symbol of the great love my parents had shared. What had Erik thought of this tiny metal circlet? I wondered. But tonight I had crossed a burning bridge—leaving Erik on the opposite side. And I hadn't realised it until it was too late, blinded by my own ignorance.

This should be a joyful moment, I told myself. Isn't this what you've always wanted? This perfect finale, my own happily ever after, rife with thrills. Who wouldn't be happier?

"Very well," I relented quietly with the sound of irrevocability, expertly masking my doubts. "Order your carriage to the stables exit; we can leave after the performance."

"Wonderful!" Raoul laughed, attempting to lift me up by the waist and twirl me around. However, he only succeeded in moving me a few centimeters; I was quite a portly young woman, after all. Slightly winded now, he made up for the failed romantic gesture by kissing me benignly. Shocked like a cat plunged into a bucket of water, my legs seemed to dissolve right under me; I collapsed against his body, grasping at his shoulders for support.

"_Alors_, you're falling for me now, no?" Raoul said with a charming, confident smile.

I could only laugh weakly. I had thought my first kiss would be something magical, but instead, the sensation was marked merely with turmoil. I felt fraudulent inside, like a child breaking the rules for the first time, but too guilty to enjoy herself. After all, a kiss was all that transformed Judas Iscariot from a faithful disciple into a loathsome betrayer.

"_Allons-y_," I murmured dispassionately. Ever the gentleman, Raoul opened the door for me and proffered his hand to help me ascend the steps. The scintillating stars—the eyes—followed.


	16. Reprisals

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* * *

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_REPRISALS_

* * *

"I should go," I muttered soberly as Raoul shut the rough cut door firmly behind us. "I better get back to the dressing room. Go on ahead, Raoul."

"Christine," he responded uneasily, "I ought to stay with you. These stairs …"

I shook my head obstinately. "I'm _fine_. You need to call your carriage, anyway."

He studied me closely for a moment, and I felt a stab of anxiety tighten my throat. I needed him to go. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he said, "Very well, Little Lotte." He took my hand, balled into a very tense fist, smoothed out my fingers, and laid a tender kiss on my knuckles.

I cringed miserably, and then watched him descend the rickety steps effortlessly, with urgent-but-poised alacrity. The back of his ebony tuxedo and his chestnut head disappeared into the equally black shadows below me.

I clambered down the narrow, cast-iron spiral stair desolately alone, clinging to the delicate rail precariously. I breathed a sigh of relief when my feet were planted on a wooden floor. I moved warily around the corner, now profoundly limping from my recent fall. Those new bruises hurt rather severely; I cursed again, stopping to rub one of the sensitive spots on my battered knee. I was still up in the second-storey mask-makers' area when I heard a loose board creak behind me. I stood up tersely.

He did that on purpose, I knew. He could move as silently as a shadow—or a ghost—when he wanted to.

Slowly, I turned around, giving him enough time to disappear if he wanted to.

He didn't.

Erik stood there, looking tall and menacing. He was glowering and shaking with—rage? Fury? Or was it thinly-veiled sorrow? The heavy black cloak concealed his whole body, and what was visible of his face was set in livid lines, his jaw forcefully clenched, and his eyes hooded by the brim of his fedora.

"Erik," I said hesitantly, instinctively drawing my hands closer to my chest. "What are you—? I-I didn't mean—"

"Oh, I think you did, _ma chérie_," he cut me off sharply. The endearment, usually so sweet, now contained a terrifying amount of contempt.

"No! Listen to me, I—" My words were broken off with an abrupt shriek when Erik suddenly charged toward me, deftly seizing my upper arms, and shoving me roughly against one of the high work tables. With the edge of the table digging into my back, I was pinned and absolutely terrified. And I remembered just this morning how he had almost struck me. His fingers clutched my flesh mercilessly.

"Listen to you?" He laughed mockingly. "Why would I do that? You would betray me the first chance you had."

"Only because you frightened me so!" I retorted, eyes blazing.

"I frighten many people, Christine," he said with a faint sneer. "Why not you as well?"

"Did you kill Joseph Buquet?" I asked him severely.

"Why should I answer?" he said, almost offhandedly. "It seems you've already made your judgment."

"I—have—_not_," I said crossly. "If you would just tell me—"

"You don't know what I am capable of."

"What? You mean extortion, lies, murder, and probably many other vices I have not witnessed yet? I will not be surprised anymore. I refuse. I tire of your illusions, Erik." We stood very close, leaning toward each other, just as we had only a few hours ago; our faces were close enough for a kiss, but we were both restrained by shackles of pride.

Suddenly, the malice abandoned Erik, leaving him brittle as a snowflake and so terribly melancholy. He released one of my arms, to cup my bruised cheek. I flinched in pain, and he pulled his hand away, as quickly as though he had just touched a hot stove.

"I thought you would understand …" His voice trailed off into an aching whisper, his head tilting slightly to the side.

"I do," I said softly, reaching out timidly. But my hand stopped just short of contact, instead brushing the air over his left cheek. I winced; it must have seemed to him as though I was revolted at touching him. But I was simply fearful of its implications.

"Don't lie to me," he hissed, giving my wrists a painful jerk. "I don't want your pity."

An angry growl was building up in my chest, but I used it to struggle suddenly, violently, and wrench myself from his strong grasp. Backing away a few steps, I said shortly, "I never gave you pity, Erik. Never."

I held his gaze for a moment—hadn't he realised that?—then spun around, and rushed down the stairs, suddenly seized by fear. I was afraid. Afraid of Erik's violent wrath—only an utter fool would not be. But more so, deep inside, I was afraid of the truths I had just admitted to him, and of the feelings they inspired.

What happened when the fairy tale Witch fell in love? What was I supposed to do? I'd never expected anything like this to happen to me. I spent the good part of my life telling myself I would always be alone. I thought I had accepted it …

I moved as quickly as I could without my braces and my cane, and re-entered Carlotta's dressing room. There, Catherine laced up the full pale rose over-gown. Harvé fitted the enormous powdered wig onto my head, and two of the make up artists painted my face white, adding rouge and kohl to shade and define features. I looked doubtfully at my reflection a moment. There seemed to be a clown staring back at me doubtfully. I sighed, picked up the hem of my costume, and walked to the stage.

The opera passed in a blur. I responded to my cues automatically, numbly wishing it would pass. Finally, it was over, and the supporting cast scurried out for their company bows. Resigned, I emerged from behind the curtains and took my place centre stage.

But quite suddenly, the auditorium filled instead with the chillingly familiar sound of ghostly, wild laughter. Belief in the Phantom of the Opera was kindled instantly, like a lit match to a stack of papers.

The chandelier, a vast thing of glass crystals and sculpted gold, was swaying almost gracefully, and the light was flickering erratically. I froze in shock, staring at its precarious quavers. It twisted vehemently against itself, then, time stopped.

The chandelier had come loose. It was falling now.

And one last word from Erik: "_Go!_"

Time and gravity restarted, and sprang ahead at full gallop. It was coming straight at me, but I could not move. Let it hit me, I thought. It didn't matter anymore.

"Christine!" someone shouted. My heart sank when Raoul rushed forward, seized my arm, and dragged me back. The chandelier crashed to the stage behind me, its delicate glass shattered and gold sculptural forms ruined. I struggled against Raoul's determined grip.

"Raoul, let me go!" I cried, attempting to pull myself from him.

He only wrapped one arm around my broad waist, and guided me out of the chaos.


	17. Entr'acte

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_ENT'RACTE_

* * *

**I awoke the next morning **disoriented and full of anxious dread that manifested itself in an angry throbbing just behind my eyes when I sat up. I shuddered in pain, and pressed my fingertips to my temples.

_Déjà vu _swept over me when I realised I was experiencing the same confusion that haunted me every morning after a particularly vivid dream. Except this morning, I remembered nothing of any dream. Only the much-desired oblivion. It troubled me.

Despite the insistent pain in my head, I was determined to think clearly and objectively. No one can say you can't do _that_, I told myself firmly. If there's anything you have, Christine Daaé, it's self-discipline; you work hard, never complain, and cope with what life has dealt you.

I took a deep breath and began to mull everything over. There was no use in denying what had happened last night and the weeks that directly preceded it. Erik was a very dangerous man. But most of his power lay within the inherent mystery of the Opera Ghost. I had my doubts as to how far he would leave Parisian borders. But I was careful not to completely ignore all possibility.

Raoul had taken me from the stage where the magnificent chandelier had come crashing down. I quickly surveyed my surroundings, confirming the memory that we had rushed away from the chaos, from the city that I loved, northward into the country.

To the De Chagny Manor.

Suddenly embarrassed, I felt silly for sleeping in the enormous underskirt and bodice of the Countess costume from _Il Muto_. I carefully placed my feet on the luxurious rug and stood, grasping the footboard for support.

There was a timid knock on the white French doors. "Who is it?" I called cautiously.

"Claudette, Mademoiselle," came the reply. "A maid."

"Enter," I said politely.

A young woman, perhaps a couple of years older than I, entered. She was in plain grey maid's garb, with a starched white apron and a dust cap over her dark hair. I smiled a bit to myself, noticing immediately that her clothing was similar to the simple work frocks that I wore day to day at the Opéra.

"Good morning," I greeted.

"Mademoiselle," she said shyly, "I was asked to bring this up to you."

That was when I saw the voluminous confection of royal violet taffeta tucked under one arm. On closer inspection, it revealed itself to be an evening gown.

"A ball-gown?" I asked, puzzled.

The maid, Claudette, gave me a look. "Mademoiselle Eloïse left a few gowns with Monsieur le Comte in case she wished to visit on a whim."

I blinked, then blushed. Philippe de Chagny was around forty and unmarried. Naturally, he would have favoured mistresses. Attempting to dispel my discomfort, I said flippantly, "Well, then, let us see this purple monster."

The ghost of a smile flitted across her face as she handed it to me. I laid it out on the bed and smirked.

Just as I'd expected, it was the height of fashion, cut exquisitely and tailored to perfection--to fit a woman who was a step taller than me and half of my girth.

"This will never fit me," I mused.

"What do you propose we do, Mademoiselle?"

I smiled at her, eying her size as only a seamstress can. "Do you have a spare dress in the laundry?"

**So it was that when I emerged **into the palatial hallway, awed as a child in a _musée_, Philippe le Comte didn't give me a second glance.

Except …

"More coffee," he said, tossing me an order as though it were a toy ball.

I lifted a brow. "_Bonjour_, Philippe."

His cool gaze swept over me. If he were surprised, he hid it well. "Ah, Mademoiselle Daaé. Yes, the rumour had reached me that my irresponsible brother swept you up and away from the theatre. You may find him pacing in the dining room."

Philippe turned abruptly and strode away, slipping effortlessly into a room and shutting the door behind him. I shrugged away his coldness and made my way slowly down the grand éscalier to the dining room, where, just as Philippe had stated, Raoul was pacing like a restless puppy.

"Raoul?"

He looked up, momentarily confused. "Christine? I sent Claudette up with Eloïse's gown. Did you not receive it?"

I glanced down at my colourless, severe garment; at least it fit. "Raoul, that gown is fit for a dryad. The woman must look like a sapling."

He smiled his boyish smile. "Yes, she does." Then, he grew serious. "Christine, how do you feel? Shall I fetch a doctor?"

"No, no," I assured him. "I feel fine. There's no need to--"

"Well," he interrupted briskly. "Since we've left Paris, why don't we go to London and buy you a new wardrobe? You need not dress like a maid anymore."

**I learned that sultry August not to underestimate Raoul de Chagny. **Although on the surface he seemed childishly innocent and pure-intentioned, he had a secretive and cunning streak. He had billed our trip to England as an opportunity to buy me new clothing. What he hadn't told me until our arrival, was that I had several appointments to keep with English physicians.

Throughout the end of the warm, bright summer and crisp, rich autumn, Raoul escorted me from doctor to doctor, from city to city in Britain. I endured humiliating examinations and silly diagnoses, but no real aid.

_Why, Raoul? _I wished to ask him every day, with growing intensity. _Why do you want me changed?_

But I knew the answer. It was the same reason why an army of dressers came to my chambers hours before any sort of soirée or dinner engagement. With my corset bound nearly twice as tightly as I usually laced (to sing); wrapped like a fish in an ornate, richly-textured ball gown; my hair curled, oiled, and piled atop my head heavily; my face coated with make-up. Raoul wanted his perfect princess wife. He wanted a healthy beauty with a pretty smile and inherent grace.

We had been best friends as children; now, we hardly knew each other.

It was the end of October when friendly, slightly-anxious Doctor Carmarthen Melcor finally pulled me aside and murmured a few intense words to me.

"Miss Daaé, a word with you, if you please." He was a city doctor, trained here in London, with a balding head, a thick moustache that curled upwards at the ends, and shiny little spectacles.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"You say you were born with this condition on your right limbs." At the last minute, he decided against making the sentence a question.

"Yes, I was," I replied neutrally.

"Has it progressed at all?"

"No, sir. Not as far as I can tell, anyway."

A troubled look entered the doctor's kindly eyes. "Mr. de Chagny seems intent on finding you a miracle cure."

"I know," I sighed.

"I say this as a caution to you both. If he is determined to treat you, he may just find a radical doctor with a dangerous method. He may turn to experimental drugs, electric shock therapy, perhaps even surgery …"

I felt my eyes widen involuntarily. "What?"

The doctor continued quietly. "I overheard the young man discussing options with a colleague of mine. If you insist your condition is non-progressive, and it is not detrimental to your physical health, I would advise … you be happy with your lot."

I looked at him deeply, and answered evenly, "I was."

"I beg your pardon, my dear," he apologised hastily. "What I mean to say is that there is little chance of change at all in your state."

"Thank you, Doctor Melcor," I said softly. "But I think, all along … I've known that."

**I ached every day behind my smile. **As the months passed, what inner strength I had thought that I possessed eroded like a porous seaside cliff beaten by relentless waves.I fought my horrible, black despairing moods vehemently. It would be so easy to go back to that sadness. For I had believed once as a very young girl that being with Raoul would mean an end to the loneliness that had started even then. But it seemed to me that it merely worsened in his presence.

One morning I came upon him in an agitated state. "Raoul?"

His chestnut hair was mussed, and a trace of stubble traced his jaw line. He came to me, laying his hands on my upper arms tenderly. "I …I just wanted to help you! I wanted you to get _better. _I know you can be so much more that what you are right now."

"Raoul," I said placidly, praying he wouldn't bring up any more medical options. "It's already December. Why don't we return to Paris?"

"Christine …"

"Please. As … as a birthday present."

"That's right," he answered thoughtfully. "Your birthday is this month. Very well. I'll book a boat to take us back to France. But first off, The Collinses from Cumberland are paying us a visit this evening for dinner. You must change, Little Lotte."

I did my best that night to be courteous and mellifluously pleasant. Stuffed into heavy burgundy velvet and piled with borrowed gold and jewels, I fiddled with the small object in my pocket, a small thing I had snatched stealthily from the kitchen while visiting with the elderly cook, Patrice.

"Christine?"

I pulled my hand out my pocket quickly, and spun to face Raoul, a look of nervousness from head to toe.

"Yes, Raoul?"

"Will you come with me, please?"

He didn't wait for my reply; he gently took me by the arm, but walked so rapidly, I nearly tripped over my high heel shoes to keep up with him. Standing before the head of the long dining table, Raoul tapped a butter knife against his half-empty glass of wine. Alarm bells went off in my mind.

_This is not right._

I couldn't bear to listen to anything the poor boy said. His mouth moved, but his voice never reached my ears. He knelt before me, producing a tiny, harmless-looking velvet box.

_This is a lie._

He slid the ring onto my left fourth finger. It was ridiculously heavy, a cushion-cut ruby flanked around its perimeter by glittering diamonds, set on a polished yellow gold band. For just a moment, all I could do was compare it--a monstrosity!--to my mother's simple gold band. Papa had saved all his money for this delicate circlet; and it meant the world to Mama.

"May I be excused, please?" I sputtered hastily. I left the dining parlour with dignity, then fled to my private chambers. Once there, I shut and latched my doors, lighting a single lamp, and reached into my pocket again.

In my hand I held a thin razor that glittered in the candlelight. I turned it over in my loose grip, just watching the play of light dance on its surface as memories stirred ….

_Within a single month of service, Christine Daaé already had developed a reputation among the corps of workers behind the scenes of the Opéra. They knew her as a very quiet, timid girl with respectful manners and impeccable detail work on embellished gowns. _

_She had intended the afternoon to be relaxing. She had wanted to forget her troubles and leave her travail for a few hours … _

_She shut the door quietly behind her, the old stubborn door of her new private work room. She locked it resolutely, and lit a lamp that blossomed light in the darkness._

_She stared at the enormous mirror that took nearly half of one wall. What mockery! Such a thing belonged in the dressing-room of a diva, not she! _

_But even so, she was drawn to it; she looked over the girl who gazed back intently. Her pale complexion was riddled with red blotches and pustules. She pulled on stringy locks of her bulky hair, neither golden blonde nor rich russet; she drew her fingers through it, pulling it straight; she twined it around her fingers in an attempt to curl it. But it refused, falling back into its characteristic tousled waves. Her eyes were so small they would not catch the light at all. _

_Why, she was--_

_--conflicted, tragic, broken, unhappy--_

_Ugly. _

_The word was revolting itself, and it resonated in her. But it was even more than that. Christine watched as the ugly girl's face crumpled hideously with grief. Tears worked their way out from her tightly-shut eyes, and her hands clenched into fists. The nails dug into her palms painfully, but the pain felt good in a way. She collapsed into a chair hung with yards of excess fabric, wiping the tears away with her knuckles. _

So this is your life, _her inner voice said cruelly. No one will ever accept you, and _you will ALWAYS be alone.

_Oh, it hurts! she thought to herself, hating the sobs that choked her. This loneliness, this pain so utter. Her heart itself seemed to wrench in a physical agony that mirrored her isolation. It just hurts so much, I wish I could just end it …_

_In the mirror, Christine's head jerked up. She stared at her reflection a moment more in startled silence. Then, she sniffled, and flung her hand out over the work table. She carefully drew back an object and held it as though it were a heavy weight._

_It was her pair of very sharp shears._

_She opened the blades and looked at the beautiful silver gleam of light along the metal razor-edges. So easy, she mused darkly. So simple a solution. Who would care if she should disappear, anyhow? One less pay check from the Opéra, one less tenant down the street, one less customer at the market … They wouldn't even notice._

_Gently, caressingly, she ran the flat of the blade along the tender, wan skin of her forearm. She didn't care how much blood would spread throughout the room. She didn't care if she should burn in Hell, for _anything_ was better than this black despair. Death was a very small price to pay for an escape from this personal inferno._

_She put a little pressure on the inside of her wrist, so close to the bluish veins. _

So close … so close to peace.

_BANG! _

_Christine gasped and jumped like a startled cat, dropping the shears. An iron had fallen from a shelf on the wall and hit the floor._

Horrified, I opened the French doors to my balcony and flung the razor away as far as I could, at the silver-white moon wreathed in wispy clouds. The winter stars gleamed mockingly, as nature imitating the cut stones on my finger.

Back in my bedroom, I pulled Raoul's engagement ring off and set it on my bedside table. Tomorrow I'd find a chain and hang it around my neck--there was no way I could wear anything like that on my working hand.

It was time to go home.

There was a knock on my door. Raoul called through, muffled, "Christine? Are you all right? Is anything wrong?"

"Oh, Raoul," I sighed, too quietly for him to hear, "Everything, and nothing."


	18. Masquerade

_

* * *

_

_MASQUERADE_

* * *

"How long 'til next year?" I asked gleefully. I rarely indulged, but the champagne this year was utterly superb. I'd lost count of the glasses I had emptied. I felt buoyant, as though I were flying high in an over-sized bubble. Were I sober, I would have noticed the weighty feeling of eyes watching me.

Raoul, in his handsome, structured Navy costume, grinned and glanced at his gold pocket watch. "Three and a half minutes."

It was New Year's Eve, and the annual Bal Masqué at the Paris Opéra was in full swing. Outrageous and provoking costumes abounded. A monkey bearing a pair of fine brass cymbals, one with wings, a tin soldier, a court jester, several lithe felines, a woman in ghostly white, Bohemians, peasants, a princess-like sorceress, they were al mingling in a kaleidoscope of brilliant colours. Liquor flowed freely, the orchestra played gaily, and there seemed nothing but optimism for the year about to arrive. I twirled happily, floating high above all my worries and forgetting temporarily the darkness of my life. What wonderful, sparkling, fair liquid! What euphoric lightness!

"Hors d'oevres, anyone?" a cheerful voice sang out.

"Meg!" I exclaimed, rushing over to embrace her.

Meg Giry looked positively darling in a red velvet frock coat expertly fitted over spotted hose, with a tiny stovepipe hat perched upon her golden curls, a delicate wisp of veil floating over her pretty face.

"Happy belated birthday, Christine," Meg whispered, surprisingly audible in the cacophony of the raging party. "And, congratulations, I suppose, as well."

I gave a weak laugh, and made a dismissive gesture at the ring that hung heavily from my strangely-aching neck. "_Merci_, Meg." My birthday, in the last weeks of December, had passed quietly at the De Chagny Manor. "But happy new year to you."

I wore a flashy costume made of so many layers of sheer tulle, it became an opaque mass. The top of the bodice was a deep blue that transformed midway to an intense rose-pink, that faded gently into white on the skirt. The bodice itself was laid with a pattern of silver-trimmed scales, and several chains of silver stars fell over the bell-shaped skirt that was cut provocatively just below the knee, revealing the silvery-blue boots I wore. Wide blue ruffles encircled my upper arms, and I wore Raoul's ring on a silver chain around my neck. My hair was bound up carelessly, crowned with a crescent moon tiara. I carried a matching mask on a rod in one hand, and a glass of champagne in the other. I broke away from Raoul and started whirling around the makeshift dance floor. Tonight was a celebration of new beginnings, after all; and I wanted to start on a happy note.

I was laughing madly, too frequently. Just now, I moved backwards and bumped into a witch dancing with a scarecrow. "Sorry!" I called out. He tipped his straw-trimmed hat, and she cackled. I swirled away into the opposite direction, loving the delightful pull of the fragile tulle skirt against gravity as I moved. I spotted Meg talking with her mother, the unchangeable, black-clad Marie-Louise Giry. I turned my steps toward them, and dizzily-but-determinedly began to make my way.

"Hey!" someone said angrily when I bumped into him. "Watch it."

"You watch it," I retorted, "I'm a diva here."

"_Bien sûr_," he said sarcastically, "and I am a Wizard."

I muttered a few choice curses in Swedish, and moved on. The Girys were now chatting with the managers, flanked by Carlotta and Piangi, all swathed in fancy costumes.

The next person I bumped into laid his hand on my bare shoulder. I jumped.

"Mademoiselle, please be careful."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" I deposited my half-empty glass on the tray of a passing servant.

"Care to join me for a dance?" He wore a very simple red costume, so simple, it seemed to be the under-components of a more elaborate getup. Perhaps a minimal Mephistopheles?

"Certainly, sir." I took his outstretched hand as the orchestra was just swinging into a playful-yet-stately waltz. "Though, I must warn you, I am a terrible dancer."

He was taller than I; I found my eye level at his throat. With my right and his left hands clasped loosely, I laid my left hand on his shoulder, and felt his right shyly on my waist. "But you have such graceful hands, mademoiselle."

"But my feet are exactly the opposite," I countered, blushing.

A few more bars in, he said, "You look lovely tonight, mademoiselle."

I laughed a bit too harshly, keeping my eyes on my feet. "You needn't lie to me, monsieur. _Je ne suis belle, ni demoiselle_."

I sensed a smile in my dance partner. "Ah, _Faust_, I believe."

"Yes," I answered, pleased. "It's one of my favourites."

"There was a recent run these past weeks."

"What?" I said boldly. "With Carlotta as Marguerite, I suppose. She is horrifically unfit for that rôle! Her breath control vanishes half-way into an aria, her high notes are shrill, and her excessive vibrato feels like icicles in ones ears."

He chuckled. "You have quite an ear for opera. Do you sing, mademoiselle?"

"I--I did," I said half-heartedly. "I did once, but I have not sung a note in months. And … I am very sorry for that."

My half-lame right foot stomped lightly on his dress shoe. "I am sorry."

"You apologise so much, mademoiselle."

"Oh, I always have," I replied, sensing the drink loosening my usually-uptight habit of speech. "I've been such a monstrous burden to everyone ever since I was born, Monsieur. It's part of my nature to be remorseful for living. I am an inconvenience."

"_Don't--say such things!" _my partner snapped sharply. Startled, my foot trespassed again, and my toe pressed down on his.

"I'm sor--" I started, then, for the first time, looked up into his face.

He wore a mask, just like nearly everyone in the grand foyer. It was a simple black affair, and it covered his entire face. But what I finally focused on took my breath away sharply.

He had one intense dark blue eye, and one milky-pale.

I gasped, dropping my own mask as my hands flew to my mouth. _"Mon Dieu!"_

I looked around urgently for Raoul, Meg, someone I knew. But when I turned back to my dance partner, he was gone.

I couldn't speak, but my soul cried out.

_Erik!_


	19. Why So Silent?

_

* * *

_

_WHY SO SILENT?_

* * *

"Oh God," I whispered over and over. "Oh God …"

The haziness and dizziness that moments ago had been pleasant and joyous, was now frightening. The sparkling, delicious champagne had robbed me of my prized self-restraint. I struggled to focus, fighting the irrational panic reaction. I left my silver mask where it lay on the floor. I didn't know what Erik would do, but I knew what he was capable of.

_Anything…_

The managers, Madame Giry, Meg, Carlotta, and Piangi were still huddled together in mirth. I had to warn them.

Unfortunately, my arrival was not greeted with gratitude.

Before I could even open my mouth to speak, Carlotta appraised my state with a cold glare that set me back a couple steps. "Well, well, La Christine _grrraces_ us with her inebriated presence. How auspicious for us."

"_Si," _chimed in her consort.

"I applaud your vocabulary achievements," I snipped, even as I reached for the manners that were the first thing defenestrated after the umpteenth drink. The red-haired diva, dressed as a sort of black widow draped in glittering spider webs, now had fire in her eyes.

Monsieur Andre, a skeleton in an opera cape, laid his hand carefully on her plump arm. She held her tongue.

Monsieur Firmin, also dressed as a skeleton in an opera cape (I privately sniggered; were they supposed to be the fabled Phantom? Or his shabbily-dressed cousins?), sought to replace the tension with conversation.

"Mademoiselle Daaé, we hear that congratulations are in order. You will make a marvellous _vicomtesse, _I am sure." The others all bit their lips, and offered awkward concurrences.

"Please," I broke in. "I'm sorry, but you must listen to me. I've just seen Er--I mean, the Opera Ghost. I think he's about to--"

"Nonsense," laughed Firmin. "It's been six months since we've seen scrap of note or heard whisper of that apparition."

"_Mais oui_," agreed Andre, "The chandelier incident seemed to have sapped the old chap of his energy."

I spotted a troubled look cross Madame Giry's thin, angular face beneath its white powder as the others chortled.

"Madame Gir--" I began, but just as I gathered my breath, the lights in the grand foyer flickered out. We were plunged into a semidarkness that suddenly seemed hellish. There were brief murmurs of protest and confusion, but soon it was apparent an uninvited guest had arrived.

At the top of the grand stairwell, a ghastly figure stood framed by darkness. Draped in Elizabethan robes the hue of blood, impeccably detailed and stunningly-crafted, from the dainty, heeled boots and red hose, the embroidered doublet, the triple-puffed sleeves, and the king's train embellished with gold. The whole affair was completed by an immense, high-feathered, wide-brimmed hat that rested above a scowling skull. No light emerged from the dark sockets. While this opulent getup wasn't even near what Edgar Allan Poe had in mind, everyone present easily recognised Red Death. They drew away from him with the alacrity of the fear of death.

"Such silence," mused Red Death ironically, descending the steps slowly and deliberately, with dreadfully wooden movements. There was a certain horror in watching the lower mandible move as though it could form words. "Did you truly believe I would abandon you for good? I am not that cold-hearted. Unlike you, who had forgotten me. Well, you never will again."

"I'm certain you all have missed my presence sorely. However, I grow weary of the same old productions every season. So I have composed a new opera to be rehearsed and staged in the stead of the latest Meyerbeer. I believe some of you may enjoy it; it's titled _Don Juan Triumphant_."

My head snapped up in immediate recognition, though I averted my eyes from the spectral figure in scarlet.

"I will deliver each of you explicit instructions in the morn. And tonight I give you the friendly advice to obey them exactly. Having to replace another chandelier would be _most_ financially inefficient."

He was at the bottom of the stairwell. I reluctantly looked up at the glaringly white, leering skull. The brow bones were so deep, the shadow they cast revealed nothing of Red Death's eyes. I shivered.

He lifted one arm imperiously, in a slow, majestic beckoning gesture. Feeling as helpless as a pin drawn to a magnet, I hobbled slowly toward him.

For a single moment, he dared to part the iron curtain that had solidified between us. Though I couldn't even remotely detect what the expression may have been on his face or in his eyes, the bare hand that had summoned me twitched. While it had been palm up, with the index finger half-extended in command, he now turned it over and tilted it upwards, the thin fingers curling like a child daring to reach out--uncertain if he was facing an illusion.

My lungs hurt. I realised I'd been holding my breath. I peered as penetratingly as I could into the black sockets of the skull mask.

I breathed.

Ice-cold fingertips barely brushed the smooth skin of my bosom as they snagged the thin gold chain that suspended Raoul's ruby engagement ring. I felt the delicate clasp snap like a small animal's bones, and the heavy ring fell away into the emaciated hand.

Erik closed his hand around the ring, and when he opened it, the bauble was gone.

"Your shackles … the key to the lock on your cage," he whispered coldly, "still belong to _me_, Christine. You _will_ sing again."

Shocked into statue-stillness, I could merely watch as he leapt backwards, still nimble despite the immense crimson costume, and, with a theatrical ball of smoke and flame, magically reappeared at the top of the stairwell, laughing gruesomely.

Raoul grabbed my hand and we ducked away into a relatively-vacant alcove. Everyone was fleeing, screaming, with the perfume of fear thick in the air.

"Wait!" I called. Raoul was hurrying away; I lurched after him, but he held me back. "Where are you going?"

"To get some answers," he replied resolutely, and then I saw the gracile, ebony-clothed figure of Madame Giry vanishing into a dark corridor. I watched Raoul follow her, wondering if I would even see him alive tomorrow.


	20. Twisted Every Way

_

* * *

_

_TWISTED EVERY WAY _

* * *

**I stared at the swirling designs **of cream in my cup of coffee, feeling too ill to stir it. At first, it had seemed a tornado, but transformed swiftly into a billowing mass more akin to summer clouds, this wintry morning.

"May I get you anything more for breakfast, mademoiselle?" asked the maid politely.

Every word stabbed like a dagger. I winced. "Some _jus d'orange_, please?"

"Right away, miss." She flounced away. I watched the steam rise artfully from my coffee. My firm stomach hadn't disturbed me from my absurd consumption of alcohol. I was lucky in that; my constitution was sturdy, albeit somewhat incomplete.

The cream had just about dissipated itself into my morning beverage. Unmoving, my thoughts gathered momentum. Yes, I thought. Incomplete. I have always felt vaguely unprepared; I was thrust into this world without a finished execution. A rag doll with the stitching half-way undone. A piece of fabric without a seam that would unravel into a pile of hopeless threads.

I took a small sip of coffee, letting the liquid warm my entrails.

The de Chagny Paris flat was a comfortable, elegant abode. I sat at a small cherry-wood table with Queen Anne legs in the guest chamber, under the claim that I felt too ailing to break fast with Raoul. The truth was, though I did have a horrid head-ache, it was the unsettling feeling of being a passenger on a train without windows that kept me in. I didn't know if we were about to crash, or climb the tracks to Heaven's gate.

Last night, after Raoul had vanished into the dark corridor after Madame Giry, I found our carriage, and returned here alone. Overtaken by the alcohol, I let the maids put me in a fresh night shift, and collapsed into a black slumber.

The maid--was her name Azelmine?--returned, setting down a tall glass of orange juice and presenting me with a very large paper-wrapped parcel.

"This just arrived for you, Mademoiselle Daaé," she said neutrally, handing me the bundle carefully. I noticed an envelope tucked beneath its string.

I recalled Erik's words with sudden uneasiness: _"I will deliver each of you explicit instructions in the morn …"_

"You can leave," I said, hoping to sound more kindly than commanding. She curtsied and left, shutting the door behind her. Nervously, I drank some juice, and looked over the writing on the envelope.

_Mademoiselle Christine Daaé. _

I opened it cautiously, and found only a succinct note in a familiar script.

_Christine,_

_Go with the Vicomte to the Opéra offices this morning. Find here enclosed a copy of the score of _Don Juan Triumphant _… and a belated birthday present._

It was unsigned. The score indeed was there, a thick pile of parchment bound with red ribbons. I cautiously lifted it away, and placed it on the table next to my two half-empty drinks.

"Oh …" I murmured in guilty delight.

Erik had sent me my favourite gown, the cornflower-blue stripe. The silk shimmered in the gloomy light of my darkened room. It was just as I had remembered it, the white lace, the floral embroidery, the white-and-navy trim, the apron drape, the side petals and waterfall bustle.

After bathing and dressing, I emerged from my chambers much refreshed, feeling the last traces of my headache fade away. My face was scrubbed clean; my wet hair was just beginning to curl, but I knew it would turn into a wad of wires as it dried. Still, just for this moment, I felt a curious serenity.

It was the calm before the storm, about to be broken.

"Christine!" Raoul called out, his handsome face drawn in line of anxiety. "I must speak with you!"

"Raoul?" I said tranquilly, tilting my head quizzically.

He blinked. "That gown … where is that one from? I haven't seen it before."

"Oh, you don't remember it? Mrs. Griffern--the Herefordshire dress-maker--made this one," I said lightly, trying to look guileless.

"Ah, yes," he said slowly, forcing a smile, "Of course. But what I want to tell you is I know who the Phantom is."

"What?" I blinked.

"The Phantom of the Opera," he said distinctly, "is no phantom at all. He is a mortal man. He was exhibited as a freak in a fair, and served as a sort of torturer in Persia--"

"I had told you that months ago, Raoul," I said impatiently, "but you never listen to me!"

"I listen to you," he protested defensively.

"Then what is my favourite aria?"

"What?"

"Tell me."

"It's …um …" Raoul hesitated, then said evasively, "Christine, you know I am no conoisseur of opera ..."

I shook my head slowly. It was much more than the matter of my favourite song, of course, but I just couldn't deal with the consequences. Not yet.

"Let's just go to the Opera House," I sighed.

**The managers' office**, a room with incandescent satin drapes on the walls, and their desks, covered in papers, was already occupied. Firmin and Andre were speaking with Carlotta and Piangi. As Raoul flung the door open, they all turned automatically.

"Ah, the _leetle flower _has arrived," sneered Carlotta as soon as she caught sight of me.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, Miss Daaé, welcome," said Andre distractedly.

Firmin said, "Congratulations yet again--it seems you have been chosen to take the soprano lead."

"Her voice ees too weak," muttered Carlotta. "Shrill and thin."

"Signora," warned Firmin.

"Have you examined the score?" Andre demanded anxiously. "It is ridiculous! A cacophony! One can barely call it music."

"Or even art," added Carlotta rudely, "in all its liberties."

"We cannot refuse. Just look at the notes we received this morning!"

Raoul picked up the papers, and I looked over his shoulder as he read them. They were a very detached and eloquent critique of the current opera company, announcing who must be fired, who was unfit, and just general directorial decisions. The notes addressed to Carlotta said simply, "You will play the Gypsy Crone." I smirked.

"It's very clear to us who is responsible for this," Carlotta said coldly. "Christine Daaé. She is behind everything!"

My mouth dropped open in shock, before a surge of rage rose up so powerful that it drove me at the Italian diva in a fury. I nearly decked her across the face as I roared, "How dare you! You vile thing! How--_dare_--you!"

Even I heard the unsheathed knives in my voice. Carlotta actually backed off. Good, I thought smugly. Months of upper-class propriety caused much of my more violent energies to be bottled up and never released.

"As a matter of fact," I stated callously, attempting to regain my composure, "I want nothing to do with this production."

"Then you will not sing?"

I shook my head, folding my copy of the score up.

Just then, Madame Giry burst through the door, with Meg at her heels. Dark and light, but with matching worried expressions.

"Messieurs," she said simply in greeting, then held out an ivory envelope in one hand. "Another note."

The two managers groaned in frustration, weariness, and disgust. "Read it, please, Madame."

She nodded once, artfully unfolding it, and letting her eyes settle upon the words as they did upon the corps de ballet as they practised.

"_Salutations;_

_Some simple directions just before rehearsals begin. Carlotta must learn to act in a hurry, for even the minor role of the Gypsy Crone must be convincing. Our Don Juan must slim down if he is to be our Spanish libertine; Piangi has reached an age where he must be concerned about his health. As for my managers … gentlemen, your business is to be taken care of from the office, not the stage._

_And Mademoiselle Christine Daaé … This shall be her greatest triumph. The fine qualities of her voice shall be showcased in the opera. However, she should be aware that if she wishes to surpass all others before her, she has many lessons ahead of her. If she can overcome her pride, I would be willing to resume teaching her._

_Your obedient friend,_

"And Angel …" Madame Giry's voice finished softly.

"Wait." We all turned and looked at Raoul, an odd focus in his blue eyes. "We have been missing the point. The solution is right in front of us! We can bring down this angel very easily."

"How?"

"What do you mean, Monsieur le Vicomte?"

"We can trap him," Raoul said tersely. "If Miss Daaé performs in this crude spectacle, surely he will come out to watch and listen …"

"If we lock down the theatre--" said Firmin, catching the idea.

"And have the gendarmes present," added Andre, beginning to smile.

"And," added Raoul, now downright wicked-looking, "be certain they are heavily-armed. The Phantom's Opera will end!"

"Madness!" broke in Madame Giry. "Messieurs, there is no way to defeat him!"

"Keep your authority to the _foyer de la danse_," said Firmin harshly. "Or help us."

"Monsieur, I can't," she said, almost choking on her words. God help us, I thought. I had never seen Madame Giry lose her composure in all my years.

"Are you working _with_ him?" asked Raoul silkily. "You must be on his side, then."

"No," she responded, regaining a tiny measure of steely cool. "Though if I were you, I'd take great care. He would kill _you_ without a second glance."

"If ze ballet meestress is not werking weeth him, zen _she_ obviously is!" screeched Carlotta, jabbing a finger at me. _"Che imbroglio!"_

"_Si_! Christine Daaé!" Piangi injected. _"Gran Dio!"_

Soon, they were all shouting over each other. I wanted to cover my ears and just disappear.

"This is where the dark angel will fall!"

"We can arrange for the police to be here on opening night--"

"Monsieur le Vicomte, this could very well free us all--"

"The girl is clearly insane--_O padre mio _…"

"Messieurs, do not incite his wrath--"

"All we need is Christine to--"

"If you all don't stop right now, I swear _I'll go mad!_" I screamed, hurling my score violently to the ground.

They stopped.

"Raoul!" I nearly shrieked, wringing my hands on my skirt, "_Don't_ make me do this! Raoul, I cannot!"

Raoul came to me and pulled me into a tight, protective embrace. The managers had dragged one of their overstuffed leather chairs to us.

"It won't work." I felt his arms tighten around me. "There are things he knows and things he can do … you could only trap him if he were without hope."

He led me backwards to sit in the chair, kneeling at my feet, attempting to take my hands. I needed to discourage him; If hard facts and common sense wouldn't change his mind, perhaps if I tried a bit of feminine wiles … I could sway Raoul away from this ludicrous plan of his …

"If he takes me back Raoul, we shall never see each other again…He will never let me go. Would you risk hearing his song all our lives?" I looked away into a middle distance.

"She's truly mad," said Carlotta, mystified. Piangi nodded and took her arm silently.

Raoul ignored them, tenderly stroking the back of my numbed right hand. "You were right all along. I should have listened to you all those months ago. But Christine, if he's only a man, we can defeat him. Until we do, he'll haunt us the rest of our lives."

"Oh God," I sobbed. Now I did feel terrible; Raoul had apologised. It was so easy to be angry at him, I forgot how earnest and kind he could be. He was so hopeful, looking up at me, that I wanted to help him. Although we could not see eye to eye, he was real, and warm, and right in front of me; was it worth chasing after a ghost? "I feel twisted every way possible--what answer could I possibly give? Must I _jeopardise my life_ just to be able to live? I--I can't betray him! He gave me my voice."

I rose from the chair and paced, my ambivalence rising, trying to reign in the hysteria that threatened my delicate balance. "Am I to be _hunted _like some sort of deer in the wood? I long to refuse but I know I can't. Oh God, but if I agree ..."

"Christine," Raoul said quietly. "It's not that I don't care about what you feel, but we're relying on you. If you don't agree to this plan, nothing will work."

They swarmed around me, begging unscrupulously. The noise was unbearable.

"I'm sorry," I whispered breathlessly. I shambled as quickly as I could to the door, and cried, "_I can't!"_

"Christine!" Raoul called after me.

Once outside, I fumbled in my pockets, hoping to find a handkerchief to blow my nose with. Instead, I found an oddly-shaped object wrapped in a piece of parchment. I unwrapped it, and found that the casing was more than just a scrap.

Written in Erik's trademark careless hand and simple wording, it read:

_Dear Christine,_

_If you do choose to return to me, I give you the key to the Rue Scribe entrance of my home and the instructions how to work the mechanism. If you choose not to return, betray my confidence and lead the authorities down to capture me. Whatever you choose to do, I shall be waiting._

_Erik._


	21. A Perfect Cage

_

* * *

_

A PERFECT CAGE

* * *

"_Charlotte?" Gustave asked hesitantly._

"Oui?" _she answered, sitting up from the blanket spread over the clean sand. _

_They had escaped the humid city together, and spent the day on the Breton beaches near Perros-Guirec. The weather was warm, very warm, and the pretty blonde ballerina wore a lightweight white summer frock and a wide-brimmed straw hat that matched her glossy hair. The sea breeze felt wonderful._

"_I love you." There. He said it. He braced himself for her reaction._

_Her pale green eyes grew wide for an instant, then she turned away. _

"_What's wrong, _ma chère_?" He ran his hands over her slender shoulders._

"_N-nothing, Gustave."_

"_Something is wrong. Tell me. If you don't, I und--"_

"_No! It's--" She sighed; she shook her head, and her hair shivered in waves down her back. He loved her hair, like moonlight through topaz. She turned her head, and he saw her statuesque profile; her long lashes twitched as she blinked away tears. "I'm afraid."_

"_Of what?"_

"_If you break my heart, Gustave, it will never mend; I will fall to pieces."_

"_When you fall in love," he said earnestly, "you can't help but become broken. You can only hope someone else's pieces can make you whole. Two in an interlocked puzzle."_

_She smiled. He only vaguely comprehended his maladroit figure of speech, but all that mattered now was her smile. _

"_But--"_

_He kissed her. And, oh God, even if they didn't understand, they felt the puzzle pieces move; his heart was now hers, and hers belonged to him._

**I glanced doubtfully **at the bizarre, secreted mechanism before me, and re-read Erik's concise instructions. I prayed that no one coming down the Rue Scribe would spot me and ask what I was doing to a solid stone wall.

I pulled one stone out slightly and twisted it half-way counter clockwise. There was a small hole cut in an irregular shape on the side now facing upwards. I rubbed the "key" that Erik had slipped into my pocket between my cold fingers. The mid-morning January air was unforgiving. I carefully placed the object into the key-hole, and pressed down; it popped back up, and there was a sound like a vacuum being broken. The faint outlines of a door-way appeared as I snatched the key back, and the odd stone receded. I pulled the door open by its rough stone edges.

I started to draw a deep breath, and begin descending the shallow stone steps that led down. I had had much practise at stealth at Notre-Dame-des-Fleuves, sneaking out into the kitchen for scraps, or into the library for a book. No one was around; I tried to calm my racing pulse.

"Mademoiselle!" called a voice out of the blue. Deep. Foreign-sounding accent. Unfamiliar.

I gasped with chagrin, rooted in place. I cursed my ill fortune, and prepared to defend myself.

A man hurried up to me. I instinctively retreated, pressing my back to the cold stone. How foolish was I!

He was an elderly man, though still full of vitality, judging by his lively gait. He appeared to be Middle Eastern, with rich ochre skin marred by worry wrinkles, and a solid build; he was dressed warmly, with an Astrakhan cap atop his head, a waistcoat of exotic printed silk visible beneath his stark grey western suiting.

I didn't know him, so I was appropriately startled when recognition blossomed on his careworn face and he bowed slightly. "Mademoiselle Daaé! Forgive me; I did not see that it was you!"

"Monsieur?" I said, still a bit afraid. I wrapped my arms around myself; I'd stupidly left my cloak in the cloak-room, and stood here in the cold in just my blue silk gown.

"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle." He removed his cap briefly, showing a thinning spread of coarse salt-and-pepper hair. "I am Nadir Khan, a … a friend of Erik's. Let us descend the stair; it is warmer inside."

"A friend?" I repeated curiously. Erik had certainly never indicated having friends. I let him go before me, and we continued to converse quietly. He took the steps slowly as I descended behind, one stair at a time; he holding his arm raised behind him, which I grasped thankfully like a _barre_.

"Yes," Nadir said slowly, almost forlornly. "We have something of a history together … back in Persia."

"What happened?" I asked diffidently, hoping I wasn't prying.

The Persian man sighed, "Let's just say we have changed each others' lives for good."

I changed the subject, uncomfortable with his reluctance; it was obviously a very personal matter. "How do you know me, Monsieur Khan?"

He glanced at me. I saw an inscrutable look cross his dark green eyes.

"Please," he said evasively, "allow me to escort you to the banks of the lake."

"Well?" I asked once my feet touched solid ground five stories below street level, now slightly concerned. The familiar sound of water _shush_-ing on the underground shore met my ears.

"Erik … is a very private person, as you know. But once I asked about you, several months ago. And as he spoke about you, your vocal progress, your disability, your wit and warmth … I saw an emotion in him that I had _never_ witnessed him to express before. Hope."

"Thank you, Monsieur Khan," I said softly.

"If you don't mind my asking, Miss Daaé, but why are you returning to him?"

I didn't answer for a bit. Finally, I said softly, "Because he asked me to."

Nadir looked at me another long moment. From the immaculate details of my custom dress, my average height and stocky build, my unappealing face, dishevelled hair, then into my eyes. I had the unsettling feeling that his green gaze were appraising things hidden from even myself. I averted my gaze and stared at the stone walls in the semi-darkness.

_Semi_-darkness?

There was a light approaching from the direction of the water's gentle rhythm. Through the eerie mist came a boat. And in the boat there was …

"Daroga," I heard Erik greet casually as the bow of the gondola hit the edge. Without even looking up, he looped the rope around a moor, unhooked his lantern, and gracefully stepped ashore. I tried to disregard the quickening of my heart, the sudden swell in my throat, the warmth that rushed to the surface of my skin …

"I hope your filthy lair is in order, Erik," Nadir said smartly, "because you have a guest."

He jerked his head up enough to peer out from under the brim of his fedora; when his misallied eyes met mine, I found it exceedingly difficult to look away. I couldn't possibly count nor name the emotions that flew through them. The ache in my throat intensified; unshed tears rose up inside my neck and seemed to burst inside my head.

He looked so much thinner than the last time I'd seen him, and the shadows beneath his visible eye had darkened dramatically. He looked sunken, haggard, gloomy … and tired. Drained of energy like a clockwork figure on its last turn of the key.

"Christine." The way he murmured my name made it sound like a prayer.

I stepped from the shadows. "Hello, Erik."

"You came."

"On my own," I added quietly.

I moved toward him uncertainly, but mid-way there, tripped on a rock. I toppled forward with a small cry.

Erik was there in an instant, swooping in like a hawk--not to kill, but to save--to break my fall. He held me up securely by my upper arms as I struggled to catch my breath. I stood up shakily, testing the joints of my legs. They trembled.

Very gently, his tone as delicate as a cloth made from spider silk, he asked, "Christine, where are your braces?"

"I--I left them here. I mean, in my workshop. I had a cane, but I forgot to bring it this morning." Embarrassment sent tears to sting the backs of my eyes.

He tightened his grip on my arms lightly. "My dear, you're icy."

"No, no, I'm fine, Erik," I protested weakly. The truth was, I was shivering intensely; when my teeth began to chatter uncontrollably, he slipped his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it over mine. And just like last time, all those months ago, the black satin lining felt soothing, and the bejewelled woollen collar was warm on my neck.

"Daroga, I pray you'll excuse us … Mademoiselle Daaé is unwell," Erik said coolly.

Nadir nodded. "But of course. Please. _À bientôt_."

The Persian man bowed his head, and cast me a final look. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Daaé."

"And yours," I whispered. Nadir set out for the exit, and Erik guided me to the gondola. I took my seat on the old velvet cushions gratefully; I doubted I could have stood another moment. Erik shoved off easily, and poled across the vast lake in silence.

When the boat scrunched into the tiny port at the House beyond the Lake, Erik nimbly hopped out and moored it, then proceeded to walk away.

"Erik!" I yelped, shaken. "Help me, please?"

"I think you can help yourself," was his cold retort. He strode away, but left the door ajar.

What happened? I wondered. Touched deeply by despondency, he had been concerned and mild, but now it seemed he'd dropped the iron curtain between us again. With much effort, I clambered from the boat and shoved through the door. Erik stood by the organ, but was not playing.

I dropped the crumpled letter from my pocket at his feet. I reached out to him, but he immediately glided beyond my grasp.

"How could you even _believe_ that I would betray you, Erik?" I said quietly but quenched.

A tiny flame of anger whirled around in his eyes. "Because you have, Christine."

He lifted his left hand, drawing it back towards his masked face, while simultaneously curling his gracile fingers. With a quick motion, much like releasing a bird, or throwing a small ball, he tossed something at me. I tried to catch it instinctively, but missed. Something hit my blue silk skirts.

Sitting in my lap was the enormous engagement ring that Raoul had given me.

"Oh God," I said helplessly, picking it up. I looked up at Erik. "I--"

"You needn't say a word," he whispered, turning away. "Go back to the Vicomte, Christine."

"I can't." The words leapt to my lips before I could even think. "Raoul thinks that he loves me, but he doesn't _understand_ me.

"He thinks that I am a broken doll--that I can be repaired and repainted … then dressed up and put on display. He wants to … lock me up in a perfect cage," I whispered, "and he had given me the diamond padlock."

"And you accepted," Erik said with a faint sneer.

"I didn't! I didn't shut the door behind me--" I took a shaky breath. "I didn't clasp the lock. I'm so tired of all of it … so sick of being a prisoner, in my trade, in my life, in my own body …"

Erik was silent.

"I'm so sorry for what I've done, Erik. I was weak and imprudent and weary; I misjudged everything. I won't make the same mistakes again."

"Why have you returned here, Christine?" he said finally.

"You said that I have many lessons before I will be ready to assume the role of Aminta." I dropped the ring on the keyboard and folded my arms across my chest. "I am here to learn."

I turned on my heel and limped away with as much dignity as possible to my private bedchambers. Inside, there was a large brown spider sitting soundly on the floor. I carefully picked the creature up, and gently set it outside the door before shutting it. I needed no audience to my brooding tonight.

**The dream I dreamed that night **disturbed me. I saw Erik, tall, regal, enigmatic, with a beautiful, willowy young woman swooning in his arms. She looked a bit like my mother; same lovely face with enormous, heavy-lashed green eyes, thin nose, and rosette mouth. Only, instead of long, satiny blonde locks, she had a thick flag of dark brunette curls.

_Who is that? _I wondered, aggrieved.

_Christine, Christine, _Erik sang gently.

_No! _I protested. It couldn't be! I wanted to tear this stranger away from my maestro, my angel …

She vanished. Twisted in wretched, naked anguish, now unmasked, Erik collapsed. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth in a vain attempt at self-control. He fell to his knees, wracked with sobs; in his hands, he held a waterfall of sheer white tulle.

My eyes snapped open involuntarily. For just a moment, I floated senselessly between dream and reality. My eyes saw the canopy of my bed, but my mind still saw Erik bringing the wedding veil to his face, pressing the rose-perfumed softness against his skin, now wet with tears.

I dressed in a plain calico gown and leather slippers. I found my braces set demurely by my vanity table; Erik must have taken them from my workshop and brought them here. I sighed, then pulled my ivory stockings up before strapping the metal braces over my lower legs. I strapped them on tightly, a small penance for the inexplicable guilt that I felt. I brushed my hair, then tied the whole bushy mass away in a sloppy plait. I dabbed rose-water on my neck, then pushed myself to my awkward feet.

I emerged into the music room surprised by the delicious aromas that greeted my stubby nose. There was a breakfast set out for two near the organ. As I approached, my delight grew.

"Erik?"

"Good morning, Christine," he replied, behind me.

I spun around. "Why the feast?"

"Isn't it your favourite?" he asked innocently. "Orange sweet rolls and raspberries with English cream?"

"I--yes," I stuttered.

He bowed his head, and said, "Actually, I would like to apologise for my behaviour last night, Christine. I was being unjust and irrational. And … I am very glad you have come back."

I broke a piece off of one of the spiced orange rolls and smiled. "I am, too."

**For the next several days**, Erik and I greeted each other with courteous civility, and the ghost of the timid affection we'd shared. After testing my long-neglected singing voice with scales and simple exercises, I sang selections from _Faust_, _Cosí fan tutte, _and _A__ïda_. My teacher listened with incredible concentration.

_J'écoute et je comprends cette voix qui chante …  
__qui chante dans mon coeur …_

"Your sound is starting to lean away from the coloratura … to mature," Erik observed from the piano.

"I'd like to be a full lyric," I said anxiously. "I think I sound too thin to be a really strong Marguerite."

"Well, my dear, your range is extraordinary, in the literal sense of the word," Erik explained. "At the moment, you can perform certain roles in each Fächer. Why don't you choose an aria for tonight's lesson?"

I began rifling through Erik's collection of scores for the particular aria I wanted to try. I easily found Mozart's _Die Zauberflöte_.

"The Queen of the Night," I heard Erik say softly with thinly-veiled pleasure.

I looked up at him and smiled. "I'm a little nervous about those high notes, but I've always wanted to sing this aria. The melody is so pretty."

Erik lifted his eyebrow, then smiled cunningly. "Very well," he said, gesturing towards the piano. I studied the score meticulously, struggling to recall the minimal German that Papa had taught me during our travels over the continent. I understood the music much more than the translation of the libretto.

_Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,  
__Tot und Verzweiflung,  
__Tot und Verzweiflung flammet um mich her! _

"More anger," Erik said abruptly.

"Pardon?" I blinked.

"The Queen is enraged and vengeful," Erik said in a teacherly tone. "Your singing is pure and exquisite, but it is blank. I know you are plenty capable of fury, Christine. Put swords of flame into your voice."

I nodded. Anger. Anger. Where did I keep my rage? _Of course. The children at the orphanage. Strangers across nations who all succumbed to rudeness and curiosity. La Carlotta. _Carlotta!

_How _dare_ you! You evil woman!_

This time, when my mind gave me the image of all the people in my life who had stared, pointed, and laughed at me, I summoned up a ball of incensed fire from somewhere deep inside.

_Fühlt nicht durch dich  
__Sarastro todesschmerzen,  
__Sarastro todesschmerzen,  
__So bist du meine  
__Tochter nimmermehr. _

I heard stilettos in each high, staccato note.

_Verstossen sei auf ewig,  
__Verlassen sei auf ewig,  
__Zertrümmert sei'n auf ewig  
__Alle Bande der Natur  
__Wenn nicht durch dich  
__Sarastro wird erblassen!  
__Hört, Hört, Hört Rachegötter,  
__Hoert der Mutter Schwur! _

"Better," he said, though I could tell he wasn't fully satisfied with my performance.

That night, Erik was busy at the piano composing something that sounded strange and wonderful; the music alternating with the scratch of his green quill. Not wishing to disturb him, I reclined on a couch near the fire, letting the light illuminate the pages I was reading. I had made it about half-way through Victor Hugo's mammoth _Les Misérables_, but I found myself struggling to keep my eyes open. Soon, I pushed the tome aside and rested my head …

I woke up. I was lying on my side, facing the back of couch; there was a cramp in my shoulder. Soft music spilled from the piano … Erik's flawless playing. I opened my eyes to a dull darkness; the fire in the hearth, though warm, had died down to faintly-glowing coals. I shut my eyes again, hoping to fall back asleep. I listened to the end of Chopin's Mazurka in F minor peacefully. When the piece ended, I heard the bench scrape backwards a bit as Erik rose from his seat. His footsteps, as stealthy as a hunting cat's, were inaudible, but I sensed his presence, like a thundercloud, draw near. He cast a shadow in the orange light that fell over me as he paused in front of the fireplace. I heard him sigh heavily.

I continued to lay there, body lax, breathing evenly. He pulled away from the hearth and approached the couch directly. I felt him lift his hand, perhaps to shake my round shoulder gently to rouse me, but apparently he changed his mind.

Instead, he bent forward slowly and charily slipped one arm beneath my thick neck, and the other beneath my battered knees. I felt Erik draw in a breath sharply, and almost effortlessly lift my bulky body into his arms; I lay as blank and loose as I could, my arms carelessly folded over my middle, my head nestled into the crook of his neck. He began to carry me across the lair to my bedroom as I prayed silently he wouldn't feel my heart beating at such an ungodly speed. His shirtfront was warm from the fire, and he smelled good, smoky and mysterious.

The air in my bedchamber was faintly perfumed by the rose-water I wore daily. Erik gently laid me down on the bed, and covered me with a thick blanket.

At the threshold, I heard him whisper, "Good-night, Christine," or was I already dreaming?

**I was kneeling one afternoon **before Erik's bookshelf, searching for a fresh read, absently humming the haunting English folk song _Scarborough Fair. _I hadn't brushed my hair, and it was springing free from the slipshod bun I'd tied it in; I'd dressed in a comfortable bronze-coloured gown, and tied a pretty shawl over my shoulders. It was with a slim volume of poetry in my hand when Erik announced we were to try material from _Don Juan Triumphant_.

"I think you're ready," Erik said simply to me. I felt a rush of excitement pulse through my veins, a swift energy that raced up and down my left arm, like an ache.

"Why don't you try Aminta's Act IV aria?" he suggested.

I nodded. I had read over the score for the aria, titled, _The Hunter's Kiss_. It was a sensual, metaphorical piece with strong string instrumentation. Appropriately, Erik's impeccable accompaniment for this song was on the cello.

"Christine," Erik interrupted the first reprise, frowning. "You're still not emoting enough."

"I'm trying," I said defensively, shutting my eyes. "But I'm not Aminta, Erik. I'm just Christine. I don't know if I can do this."

I opened my eyes to see him staring at me thoughtfully. Not crossly. He put down the bow of his cello and laid the instrument aside.

"Perhaps you'd like to wear this … as an early dress rehearsal, then." Erik pulled from some hidden depository a long white dress-box. I sat down and accepted it modestly.

I couldn't conceal the smile of delight as I opened the box. Inside, I found a positively striking dress of blushing salmon pink silk. The square neckline was trimmed with black lace studded with scarlet rosettes, and the sleeves were capped at the shoulder with the same seductive fringe. White lace peeked out from beneath the wide ruffle of the sleeves themselves, trimmed with black embroidery. The stomacher flared open, appliqués adorning a peasant-style lacing. The skirt, falling just mid-calf, was composed of several layers of pink ruffles edged with ebony embroidery that split down the centre to reveal a dark print. I looked closely at the shimmering fabric and gasped. The lacy print was of roses. The tiny red ribbon flowers were roses. Even the design of the black embroidery was of roses.

Aminta wasn't a gypsy girl or even a servant.

She was a forbidden flower.

I carefully lifted the dress from its box, and breathed, "It's so beautiful."

"It's yours," Erik answered.

I held it up to me, then glanced up at him. "May I?"

"Of course," he said.

I lurched up from my seat and went into my chambers to change. The costume fit perfectly, tailored exactly to my lumpy, humble body shape.

I emerged from my chamber. "Erik?"

He turned. He stared at me for several moments while I was sure my face turned the same hue as the dress.

"Wait a moment, my dear," he whispered. He plucked a fresh red rose from some vase nearby, and broke the stem off close to the blossom. He drew near, and gently tucked the flower into my frizzy hair, just above my left ear. We were uncomfortably close, and I fidgeted nervously.

"Try this phrase," he advised, pointing to a line of music. I read it quickly and smiled. I flung my arms out, and, twirling clumsily, exulted,

_No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy!  
__No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!_

I gasped at the end of the high note; not for shortness of breath, but for the utter change in sound. My voice no longer sounded like my voice, it was gossamer, but somehow powerful; like a crystal prism, the light of a star, soaring like a comet.

He didn't say a word, but from the glittering in his eyes, I knew that I had pleased my maestro. He had given me a voice to shatter prisons.

**What was this feeling **between us? I wondered, troubled, one evening as I tilted my head to better hear Erik's delicate and intricate playing on the grand piano. Clearly there was more of a rapport than simply teacher and pupil. That I accepted easily. The rest of the possibilities were much more unsettling. The only path of my future I had ever embraced was a solitary one; even as a little girl, I had always known my fate to be that of a working-class spinster. The only hope I had kept was to earn enough money to live in comfort, and cultivate a careful contentedness, without desperate desires.

But now where did I stand? Engaged to a nobleman that barely knew me, dwelling below the ground with a peculiar man just old enough to be my father. What a twisted travesty my life had become!

I couldn't think about it anymore. I had tried for so many years to shut my heart off, to be reconciled with my dejected life and carry myself with dignity. All the peace of mind I had worked for was being swept out from under me … A wave of vertigo swept over me, as though I were staring down a bottomless sheer drop just before my feet. Oh God, I would surely fall …

You can't afford to fall to pieces right now, I told myself sternly. What would Papa think if you fell apart in the face of an obstacle?

"Is everything all right?" Erik asked me later as he took his customary seat by the hearth. The warm firelight flickered over the polished surface of his mask.

"Oh .. Yes, Erik, thank you," I said distractedly, staring at the flames.

I sighed. "It's just …the anniversary of my father's death is approaching. It always make me melancholy. It's been so many years, and I'm afraid of losing him, forgetting him. I want to remember all the little things … the sparkle in his eye when he played the _Tzigane_, how he'd tap my nose twice when I sat on his lap, the texture of his ratty old opera cape, how he'd always let me tug on his hair …"

"You miss him," Erik said softly, stained by sorrow.

"I do," I said, staring at the flames in the hearth. "Next week marks the day, and I've visited his grave in Perros-Guirec every year without fail."

"Ah," he said. "Then, I take it you'll need this?"

He took from his tailcoat pocket a train ticket, and handed it to me. "One voyage to Perros-Guirec, my dear."

"Oh, Erik," I sighed, "thank you." I looked over departure time and station, satisfied. Erik even knew the day I needed to go.

"You must get some rest, Christine," Erik said quietly. "I want you to be well-rested for tomorrow's rehearsal."


	22. Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again

_

* * *

_

_WISHING YOU WERE SOMEHOW HERE AGAIN_

* * *

"_Do you remember the words, Christine?" Gustave asked, attempting to sound as though each breath wasn't a laborious effort. _

_Christine nodded, looking endearingly sweet with her muddy-coloured hair in a pair of lopsided braids. There were smudges of dirt on her plump cheeks and forehead, and her brown wool dress looked worse for wear. But her dark eyes were sparkling and alert. "Yes, Papa, I remember."_

_He really had no need to ask; Christine had a remarkable memory, and seeming unlimited capacity to learn. Already, she knew so many scores and songs by rote. This evening, they had set up on a street corner in a town outside of Paris. Gustave leashed a cough, then set his old violin on his shoulder, gripping it there with his chin while he switched his worn bow from one hand to the other. He drew it across the strings, pulling the poignant Celtic melody from the instrument to float upon the air. _

_Christine twitched her left fingers in time, her face urgent and yet distant, then began to sing._

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?  
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;  
Remember me to one who lives there,  
He once was a true love of mine …

_Despite a hesitant stutter to her papery speaking voice, Christine sang with a superb clarity and effortless, refined tone for her age. Perhaps it was paternal bias, but Gustave thought that there was something about her voice … as though all the diaphanous beauty and easy poise of childhood that had been denied to her physically had manifested in her throat. She projected just enough to be heard by lofty adult ears. Several passer-bys paused wonderingly, fished in their pockets, then dropped coins into his open violin case. The girl sang as though she truly was longing to take back a lover, but confined by pride._

Tell him to make me a cambric shirt;  
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,  
Without no seams nor needlework,  
Then he'll be a true love of mine.

Tell him to find me an acre of land,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,  
Between the salt-water and the sea-strands,  
Then he'll be a true love of mine.

Tell him to reap it with sickle of leather,  
Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,  
And gather it up with a bunch of heather,  
For then he'll be a true love of mine …

A true love of mine.

_Gustave drew the song closed gracefully, and glanced down to see Christine's puffy, round face turned up toward him attentively. She pouted, and put on a serious "grown-up" expression._

"_Papa," Christine said distinctly with a frown, "It sounds like they're seasoning a chicken."_

_Gustave laughed gaily, pretending to feel no pain, carefully counting their day's earnings. "I daresay … we've enough … for a chicken dinner of our own, ma Petite Lotte. What do you say?"_

_With Charlotte's scarlet scarf around her neck and over her shoulders, Christine looked just like a springtime robin hopping up and down in the wintry air, except for the clanking, awkward metal braces glinting on her squat legs, and the little cane that clattered to the ground._

**The train swayed almost imperceptibly **on its afternoon voyage to Perros-Guirec. I gazed out the window, watching the French countryside sweep by dizzyingly. Absently, I stroked the hopelessly-tangled fringe of my mother's red scarf; my eyes saw the snow falling outside, but my mind was elsewhere …

Erik and I had shared a quiet morning, oddly both at peace with the fact that I would be leaving within mere hours. I was determined to keep my composure today. I had tucked the beautiful pink Aminta dress into a modest garment bag, and cleaned my private chambers, feeling a surge of guilt for imposing on Erik's home. I donned my freshly-laundered cobalt silk gown, letting my fingers linger on the floral embroidery on the bodice in admiration. I put on my scuffed, sensible boots over my braces and gathered my forelocks back with a weary sigh. I spared a quick glance in my vanity mirror, and squared my shoulders.

There. Even if you're not ravishing, at least you're presentable, I thought wryly to myself. Head high with good-humoured mock dignity, I walked as fluidly and elegantly as possibly (which was not very) into the music room, where I could hear music already flowing like water.

Impulsively, my fingers flew to my lips in surprise. Familiar violin music accelerated my heart rate, and the unmistakable tune was as haunting as the last time I heard my father playing it.

_Are you going to Scarborough Fair?_

As a matter of fact, with his back to me, Erik may have been Gustave Daaé himself, tall and thin, swathed in a dark opera cloak.

"Erik?" I tentatively tapped him on the shoulder, and instantly regretted it, as he sawed the bow down, cutting his last note into a screech.

When he turned, I was subconsciously relieved to see the white mask and familiar half-set of features. He lowered the violin and his twisted lips quirked in something that was almost a smile.

"I heard you humming it the other day," he said simply, referring to the lovely song.

"It was one of my father's favourites," I replied, equally plainly. "It's so beautiful."

"Not as beautiful as your smile." The comment took me by surprise; looking up at Erik, I could tell he was taken aback as well.

I immediately ducked my head and emitted a little nervous giggle. The blood raced up into my face and burned embarrassingly.

"A prima donna must learn to accept compliments, my dear," Erik said, too softly to be mocking.

"For the sake of my dignity," I answered, hiding in a blanket of cool humour, "Or I should turn some shade of violet!"

Erik quirked his brow at me, and I found myself distantly murmuring, "Actually, it was the last song Papa played with me. We had collected enough money for our supper that night, but as soon as we arrived at the restaurant, he collapsed. A few men carried him to the local hospital; they lay him on a bed there … and he never rose from it."

Erik set the violin aside hurriedly, and touched my shoulder and plump upper arm. "Oh, Christine … I'm so sorry."

Hating to do so, I pulled away from his light touch. "Erik, I have worked hard for years to achieve this kind of composure regarding my father. Please don't take it from me now."

"I don't want to wear them!_"_ _Christine shrieked. She was very young, but already had impressive power to her little lungs. This morning, she was putting up an unusual amount of fuss about wearing her leg braces. The screaming was always her last resort. Her moon-like face was flushed scarlet and tear-streaked; she sniffled, then her head sagged._

_He lifted her into his lap, and carefully aligned the cuffs of the braces at her ankle and calf before strapping the fabric ties securely._

"_Is that too tight, Christine?" he asked gently._

_She shook her head, her tangled hair hiding her eyes. He put on the other brace and sighed, tucking her forelocks behind her ear. Triggered by his gentle touch, she began to cry again, but this time for a very different reason; she wrapped her chubby arms around his neck, and her hot tears burned his neck and shoulder._

"Why_, Papa?" she choked between sobs. "Why me? Why do I have to wear these? Why can't I be like other people? Why can't I run and jump and dance? Why, why, _why_?"_

_Every question hurt Gustave deeply. Christine deserved to do all those things! She should be able to go outside and skip around in the sunshine; to play with the other children they encountered; to be a carefree little girl more concerned with dresses than unfeeling metal braces, toting around a doll instead of a cane. But above everything else, all he wanted for his daughter was for her to feel happy and be _whole

**I arrived to rehearsals for **_**Don Juan Triumphant**_ early, having worked up the nerve to discuss the arrangements with Monsieur Reyer. The répititeur hadn't even cast me a glance since _Hannibal_. My copy of the score in hand, I walked with my head held high towards the auditorium. As much as I detested them, wearing the braces had vastly improved my posture and stride.

Perhaps it was the relatively peaceful week with Erik that was the cause, but my confidence had soared; I felt very businesslike. I stood at the edge of the orchestra pit, looking down for a moment at the slight man gathering sheets of music together fastidiously.

I cleared my throat. "Monsieur Reyer?"

He jumped in the air like a cat, promptly dropping all the papers, which fluttered down into a hopeless mess. "Mademoiselle Daaé!"

"Oh dear," I said, rushing down the steps to help him pick up the score. "I'm terribly sorry, sir; I didn't mean to startle you so."

Handing him the last sheets, he cast me a sheepish smile. "Thank you, mademoiselle."

"You're quite welcome," I answered quietly, working up the courage to begin discussing _Don Juan_ with him. But just as I opened my mouth to commence, he said, "I have been meaning to speak with you, Miss Daaé, but you seem to have a penchant for disappearances."

I smiled. "It's a talent of mine, I suppose."

"Indeed." Reyer hesitated. "But it is _not_, by far, your sole talent."

"My soul talent?" I repeated doubtfully.

"Yes," he said, "your sole … _only_ talent."

"Oh," I tilted my head back, embarrassed.

He smiled in a friendly manner. "In all my years, Mademoiselle, I have never heard a voice quite like yours."

"Oh--" I began to say again, but he plunged ahead.

"Your singing just defies descriptions; you possess a perfect instrument. Common similes fall short. It is, in short … seraphic."

"I'm flattered, sir, but I assure you I do not deserve such praise." Before the man could argue (which I saw he was about to), I added, "The true accomplishment is that of my teachers."

At that, Reyer looked at me curiously. "My father was a great musician, Monsieur. Music flows in my veins as surely as blood."

_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme …_

"But," the répititeur said slowly, "what of the other teacher you mentioned?"

The members of the chorus began to filter in at that moment, just as stagehands rolled in a piano on wheels and set up chairs for a run-through of the score; to familiarise them with their roles and musical cues. Things progressed surprisingly smoothly through Act I, but tension erupted into trouble by Act II.

_Hide your sword now wounded knight!  
__Your vainglorious gasconade  
__Brought you to your final fight:  
__For your pride, high price you've paid!_

I stood up for a brief solo, easily accomplishing the subtle shifts in note:

_Silken couch and hay-filled barn--  
__Both have been his battlefield_

I sat back down in my seat just as Signor Piangi, squinting at his sheet of music, sang incorrectly, "Those who tangle with Don Juan--"

Reyer spun around on the piano bench. "No! No, no … Chorus, rest, _s'il vous plaît_."

Delicately tapping out the phrase, he sang it didactically, separating the word _tangle_ into three syllables. I sighed; I'd known Erik's music would be utterly lost on the folk in this theatre. I put my head in my hands as chaos once more reared its head.

Carlotta, still bitter at losing the lead to me, rushed in to defend her portly consort. "What does it matter, this one leetle note? _Più non posso! _No one will care! This opera is not even music!"

Madame Giry, overhearing the diva insult the opera, lent an ominous warning. "Signora Guidicelli, would you allow the composer to overhear such talk?"

Oblivious, Carlotta retorted, "He is not here, and I _would_ tell 'im _exactly_ what I thought of this infernal--"

"Can you be certain of that, signora?" Madame Giry said coolly.

Carlotta actually stopped in mid-tirade, to peer fearfully up at the still chandelier.

Everyone in the chorus was now carrying on their own conversations. Noise was beginning to fill the auditorium.

Just beside me, Piangi was trying the phrase again: "Those who _tan--tan_--" He turned to me, offering a confused smile. "Is right?"

"Not quite, signor," I said uneasily; I demonstrated patiently.

"I do my best," he said hesitantly, "but I no understand."

The cacophony of conversations was quickly cut short as the piano abruptly ripped into the piece we had paused on, playing perfectly, with an intensity that countered Reyer's mildness. There was no one playing it; I hid a grin … Erik knew exactly how to crack the whip.

_She waved her pudgy arms in the air, calling, "Mama! Mama!"_

_A stout child well past her second birthday, Christine had pulled herself up into a sitting position on the floor, beating her palm rhythmically against the drum of a wooden bowl. She wanted to be picked up, by the hopeful expression she wore, wiggling the fingers of her left hand. _

_Charlotte sighed, sounding more frustrated than she had intended. She was tired, having just taken in a batch of laundry from the line. She willed herself to feel maternal, but found it difficult to achieve regarding the broken doll of her first-born. The girl hadn't even begun to try to walk yet, but was astonishingly bright. Charlotte was uncomfortable looking the child in the eye, withering beneath that dark, strangely-penetrating gaze. _

"_Mama?" she was saying now, no longer hopeful, but troubled. _

_What trouble could you have, Charlotte found herself thinking resentfully. You're a babe of two summers! _

_Luckily, Gustave came in at that moment, instantly dropping down to scoop up Christine and tickle her relentlessly. The former ballerina pressed her hand protectively over her slightly-rounded abdomen. Perhaps this child would be correctly-made. _

_In the blurriness of the late afternoon sunshine spilling in from the windows, Charlotte could imagine her daughter was beautiful and well-formed, with chestnut hair, large round eyes, and dewy skin, giggling blithely in the arms of her handsome father. A perfect family._

**I wrapped my arms around myself **beneath the royal-blue cloak. I knew the path by heart to my father's humble, lonely grave, careful of the many thin stone markers that surrounded me. Raised on fantasy tales, this place still conjured ghostly visions. Ever since I was a child, I had always envisioned each person buried here standing over their final resting place, watching me with hawk-like intensity.

Who trespasses over our tombs, they hissed each to each. I shivered, warming my bare fingers tucked up under my chin.

I shook my head, clearing it of such morbid thoughts. I gazed up, focusing on the outline of the great cross that stood starkly against the silver-white winter sky. My father lay just at the foot of the huge church monument.

_Remember me to one who lives there …_

It began to snow gently; I tilted my face upwards, and paused to feel the cool touch on my skin. My hood fell back, and I spread my hands like a child in her first snowfall.

_Christine had never been a pretty child. Even as an infant, she had had slight, shallow pockmarks on her white skin, unruly tufts of hair, and weak limbs; she was defiantly different from ordinary, cherubic babies. She also rarely smiled, and never laughed._

_Gustave sighed; Charlotte had been wanting less and less to do with their daughter lately. He loved his wife deeply, but only wished she'd see their child as a great gift, not a bothersome burden. _

_This afternoon, Christine was crying disconsolately in her cradle. Her tiny hands were clenched tightly, and her cries keening and piercing._

_Gustave had an idea. He picked up his violin, rosined his bow, and began to play. He played a few soft, lullaby-like melodies, but Christine continued to wail unhappily. Feeling his frustration bite his patience, he brought the bow down hard and tore into a loud, passionate piece full of intricate trills and singing notes. When he finished, he opened his eyes and looked down at his silent daughter. _

_Christine stared up at him, her black eyes wide in awe. Then, a wide smile spread across her face; Gustave grinned in return, delighted with his daughter's interest in music. And for the first time, she let out a sweet peal of melodious laughter. _

**I raised my eyes **to the huge cross that stood imposingly high above my head. Papa hadn't been wealthy or famous; our assets were barely enough to provide a burial here in Perros. But I carefully waded through the ankle-deep snow to stand just beside the modest gravestone. With my bare hand, I scraped snow and frost from the spare engraving. It read simply: Gustave Daaé, 1829-1868.

My hand was numb and aching when I finished brushing the snow off the scrolled top of his marker. I clasped my hands together to warm them, but also to pray. And when the tears began to flow, nearly fourteen years old and ever-ready, I had no will to stop them. I only wished for Papa to come back and take away all this grief.

_He once was a true love of mine …_


	23. Wandering Child

_

* * *

_

_WANDERING CHILD_

* * *

The cold moisture of melted snow seeped through my skirts and petticoats, numbing my knees. I bowed my head, wiping away the last of my tears with the heel of my hand. With new resolution, I drew a deep breath of crisp air and placed my hand open-palmed on the tombstone; I gently traced the digits of the latter year and murmured, "Good-bye, Papa."

I knew I would not return next year to this stark cemetery. I was no longer the little girl who had stood bewildered and bereft by the bedside as my father's body grew cold. I tucked my fist beneath my chin and allowed a small smile; at twenty-one, was I finally beginning to grow up?

I raised my eyes to the silver sky and rose to my feet hastily. Darkness flooded my vision, and dizziness swept over me. I swayed unsteadily, hearing a dull roar in my ears. _Oh dear God, no … not while I'm alone here in the cold …_

But just as I felt myself topple, something infinitely strong yet tender broke my fall. I drew in a sharp breath, and squinted at the dark shadow against the bright, even sky.

"Are you all right, Christine?" Erik asked, his voice quiet but concerned.

He wore an immense black hat topped with a plume of silvery feathers and a heavier cloak, with one arm beneath the small of my back and the other under my shoulders. I swallowed hard and blinked several times, looking everywhere but up at Erik's masked face.

"Yes, I'm fine," I said to Erik slowly. "Just let me up, please."

He did, with great care. But I noticed just then how different Erik's touch was from Raoul. Erik was steady, and seemed to instinctively know when I needed help. He refused to let me be a ruined glass mannequin. I pressed my fingertips to my temples partially to steady myself, but mostly to hide the blush that stung my cheeks. How embarrassing! Haven't I proven my mettle as a strong woman?--Orphaned--disabled--working class? And here I was, fainting like scared child.

"I--I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Sorry?" Erik repeated, equally quiet. "Whatever are you sorry for?"

"I just, uh--" I curled my fingers at my throat again and shivered.

"It's getting cold, Christine. Why don't I take you to the train station? The next departure should be--"

"No," I protested suddenly. We spent such little time outside of the theatre. That was his domain, and being out here, miles away, gave me courage. Erik cast me a slightly startled look, and I continued shyly, "May I just talk to you for a moment, Erik?"

His further surprise registered very briefly, before he coolly responded, "But of course."

He surveyed our setting, before scraping snow from a low stone above-ground sarcophagus, and unfastened his cloak and laid it across the top.

I stared. Erik quirked his visible brow and actually smiled. "I don't think--" Here he glanced at the carved letters. "--Marcel Desrosiers will oppose allowing a lady a seat."

I laughed, and the sound echoed across the cemetery, amplified by the otherwise utter stillness. I clapped my hands over my mouth, surprised by the volume. Erik grinned, and gestured to what I told myself was merely a bench. I sat as lightly as I could.

"Now," he said, the levity slipping from his voice, "What did you wish to speak to me about?"

"Well, I--" I paused. Erik stood above me as a hawk's shadow upon a hunted mouse. I lifted my hand tentatively and asked, "Would you sit with me … please?"

I didn't look up when he said almost inaudibly, "As you wish."

He sat a safe distance beside me, to my left and removed his hat. I drew a long breath, keeping my eyes on the rows of stones and crypts. "Erik, I know I upset you the last time I brought this up, but I thought we could discuss this rationally now." I looked over at him, but what little I could see of his face was inscrutable. "I've been thinking, and I just don't know if I am fit for a career in opera."

"Why, Christine?" he said evenly, though I could tell he was distressed. He was tying as hard as I was to leash his emotions.

"I don't think I'm capable." There. I said it, even if I couldn't bear to see his reaction.

"Are you doubting your own talent?" Erik peered at me with veiled pity in his eyes. "You mustn't, Christine. Even before my help--"

"No, it's other people. Most of the other singers--even besides La Carlotta--are simply sharks! Long necks and lidded eyes like a gaggle of geese! They think they're better because they have trained at the Conservatoire, or know more scores by rote, or--"

"Envy," Erik said flatly. "Christine, you are an extremely talented young woman. And under my tuition, your voice is nigh otherworldly."

"And Colette!" I burst out, a rush of anger pouring forth from a fresh memory. "What gives her the right to think she's better than me? Her metered vibrato--That she knows the avant-garde composers living in the Marais? What ill have I ever done to her?"

"Something you've forgotten … my dear … is your independence." Erik tilted his head to look at me. "All those geese are adhering to a frivolous community's fleeting ideals. Your natural ability will far outlast the works of those 'avant-garde composers' in the Marais."

I blushed all over again, before noticing that over the course of our conversation, we had drawn closer together. It was not a discomfiture. Not at all.

"Do--" he hesitated, regarding me solemnly. "Do you want to withdraw from _Don Juan Triumphant_?"

"No," I said honestly.

Erik sighed. "I will not press you to continue any longer. If you do not wish to--"

"Erik," I interrupted, "I wouldn't abandon your _chef d'Suvre _without seeing it through."

A brief lull fell between us. He wouldn't pressure me anymore? Very simply, that meant the hierarchical levels were evened. We were no longer teacher and pupil; we were equals. My mind churning over these inner occurrences, I was almost unaware that I had leaned to the left, and rested my head on Erik's shoulder. The sensation of the soft black wool and sudden tension beneath my temple pulled me back to the present.

Thinking back on what Erik had said to me months ago, I turned my head and buried half my face against his suit coat. "Perhaps it _is_ a weakness, but I'm through with struggling against a world that doesn't want me. Are you disappointed in me, Erik?"

"Never," he said firmly. And I knew he understood. Encouraged by his demeanour, I laid my hand across his. The tension I felt pass through him dissolved; I was surprised when he carefully turned his hand over and tentatively wrapped his fingers around the back of my palm. When he spoke, his voice trembled slightly.

"But Christine, where would you go? What would you do instead of becoming a diva?"

_I would listen to you play Chopin on the piano, organise your library and file your scores, sew us fine new clothes, sing in the evenings like a nightingale, sit at your side by the fire and try to make you smile …_

"You don't know?" I asked softly, an irrepressible smile tugging at my lips.

I drew back slightly; our eyes met, his full of disbelief slowly turning to hope.

Closer and closer. My heart pounded, and adrenaline flooded my body; I felt _alive_. Everything I'd been in denial over for the past several months seemed suddenly so simple, so inevitable.

_Like a kiss…_

Our foreheads had just touched when I heard, as out of an ill dream, "Christine!"

Erik and I practically leaped back, as though a bucket of ice water had fallen upon us, and stared at each other briefly like a pair of guilty children. The problem was that we both recognised the shout instantly.

I cursed in Swedish; this was a near-perfect reprise of the night in the Bois. "Erik--"

"The boy," he growled, seizing his cloak and hat. Raoul appeared, dashing in from the direction of the main gates.

"Don't harm him!" I hissed to Erik. "He won't--"

And that's when I saw the silver gleam of an English revolver half-tucked in Raoul's sleeve as he rushed to my side

"Raoul," I breathed in shock. "What are you doing?!"

There was something horrifying in that familiar boyish face hardened into a look akin to hatred. Even worse was the sincerity of his words: "I'm saving you."

And like a soldier he trained his weapon on--

Nothing.

Subdued, mocking clapping drew our attention upwards to the dark figure atop the grand tomb. Erik sneered, "Bravo, Monsieur le Vicomte. I am impressed. But how far will you go?"

I trained my eyes on Raoul's pistol, desperate to keep any gunfire in check. So I was quite amazed when a blast of _real _fire blazed past him. I peered up at Erik, who now bore a slender staff topped with an open-jawed bonze skull.

The standoff continued as I gritted my teeth, waiting for the right moment. Erik launched fireballs that popped with bursts of heat just before reaching Raoul. For his part, Raoul remained an unshakable rendition of the fearless young nobleman.

"You can't win, monsieur!" Raoul called out. "She could never love a thing like you!"

Erik's fury was palpable, and seemed to be mirrored in me; I thought, _She's right here, Raoul, she's right here and able to make her own decisions!_

Another fireball flashed; its light glittered in Raoul's eyes as he added, "You know I'm right."

A split second, and I saw Raoul's thumb tighten on the hammer to cock the revolver.

It was all the time I needed. I surged forward, seizing his wrist with both hands and shoving his arm with all my strength away from the tomb. He sputtered, "Christine, what--?"

The noise and force of the discharge was more than I'd expected; I tumbled backwards, my back hitting the frozen ground hard. Fortunately, the projectile was fired nearly straight up. After several seconds, I propped myself up on my elbows, only to see that Erik had vanished. My heart lurched forebodingly.

"No …" The word escaped my lips unintentionally. I bowed my head, and journeyed back to Paris as a prisoner going to execution.


	24. Before the Premiere

_

* * *

_

_BEFORE THE PREMIÈRE_

* * *

"_**What**_**?" **

Jean-Pierre, the friendly moustachioed front gate guard of the de Chagny's Paris manor, nervously repeated, "I'm sorry, Mademoiselle Daaé, but orders are not to let you leave the grounds unaccompanied."

I was taken aback, my face coloured with anger. "Who gave the order, Jean-Pierre?" I asked quietly, dreading the answer.

"I was asked early this morning by Monsieur le Vicomte."

I took a step backward, staring at nothing. I was hardly aware of the sound when I murmured, "And now I am truly a prisoner."

"I am sorry," Jean-Pierre said again. "Especially with Mademoiselle dressed so nicely. Were you meeting someone?"

I had donned a beautiful gown of teal taffeta this morning, the whispery fabric trimmed with ivory lace and gold beading on the bodice. Wrapped in a warm shawl and carrying a matching reticule, I had been prepared to slip away without Raoul noticing and take a cab to the opera house, but now my plans were shot. I didn't have the confidence to try and challenge kindly old Jean-Pierre's authority, nor did I want to cause him to lose his job.

"Yes …" I answered distantly. The premiere of _Don Juan Triumphant _was tonight! I needed to be there for the last-minute rehearsals, the fittings, a final once-through of the score …

I drew a long breath, and muttered, "Well, thank you anyway."

I felt his eyes follow me back into the house. Kind as he was, Jean-Pierre had an occupation at stake.

Like a trapped beast, I thought simultaneously enraged and despairingly sad, as I walked back into the foyer. Is that what I am to him now?

I had to know. I marched (as firmly as possible, given the voluminous skirt and braces on my legs) up the grand stair to Raoul's study. I knocked boldly and waited.

After several beats, I heard a voice reply, "I thought I said _not_ to disturb me."

"Raoul?" I called.

A shuffling, then hurried footsteps, then one of the French doors pulled open slightly. I saw a sliver of Raoul's face, then the door swung open.

"May I come in?"

He blinked, then gestured. "Of course, Christine."

I moved into the room cautiously, noting its neatness and expensive-looking décor.

"I must talk to you, Raoul." I faced him, apprehensively clasped and unclasped my hands before me.

"What's wrong?" He moved to take my hand, but I stepped backward. I turned around, and tilted my chin up, staring at the shafts of light falling through the windows. Feeling stronger, I finally stood before him and looked into his eyes steadily.

"I'm so sorry … but I can't marry you."

His face fell. "What?"

"I can't become your wife," I said stonily, trying to curb my guilt. Not quite succeeding.

"Why, Christine?" He looked like a broken-hearted child. Don't cry, I willed both him and myself.

"Can't you see, Raoul? We're wrong for each other." I lifted my hand, still scarred and half-lame.

"But--" The guilt was crushing when he lifted wet blue eyes to mine. "But I still _love_ you."

"Raoul." My voice cracked. I almost cursed. "Please, don't. It's just not meant to be."

His demeanour changed abruptly. "It's him, isn't it?"

I felt a chill. "What do you mean?"

"That monster under the opera house! The ghost--the Phantom!" he practically spat. "He's poisoned your mind."

Was this what my childhood playmate had grown into? He'd never shown this glacial cold before!

_He's never been jealous before, _my mind whispered. _He's never had to covet--he's been given everything he's ever wanted._

"What were you doing with him in the graveyard the other day? And those weeks when you were missing? I was terrified that you had been killed, Christine. He's a cold-blooded murderer--God, I wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't even human."

I bristled. "You don't even know him--the suffering, the pain, the despair--"

"I don't need to."

"_Mon Dieu_, Raoul, don't you _understand? _Are you really that selfish? That man was born different from everybody else and barely experienced a shade of true happiness in his entire life! The world has denied him every freedom that you take for granted! To walk above ground during the day fearlessly, friendly smiles from strangers, to have youth and beauty at your disposal …"

I tilted my head and glanced back at him--the coldness had vanished, leaving a tragic expression on his handsome face.

"You never really answered me, you know," Raoul said softly.

"When?"

"All those months ago on the rooftop; are you in love with him?"

I looked away, and answered evasively, "I'm sorry, Raoul. You have to let me go."

_**You are a madwoman! **_I berated myself. Raoul had refused to let me leave until just before the show. So I had slipped down into the laundry and quietly abducted a pair of Philippe's wool trousers (He had a sturdier build than his brother), a plain cotton blouse, and a dark officer's coat with a buckled band collar and antiqued bronze buttons. I laid these out on my bed and studied them momentarily, before pulling from my pocket a sharp kitchen knife that I wrapped many times over in rags. This time, the blade would serve its purpose. I smiled grimly, stalking over to my vanity table.

I took the knife, and, staring at my reflection, pulled a thick lock of sandy brown hair taut and pushed the blade into the strands. The pressure on my scalp eased as a chunk of lifeless locks was freed.

Soon I was left with a boyish cap of short, dusty blond tufts. I grinned at myself lopsidedly. I had always detested my unmanageable hair, and now much of it was gone. Dressed in the trousers, shirt, and jacket, I rolled the cuffs of the pants and pulled on my most rugged boots and a newsboy's cap.

I shrugged my shoulders; my head felt so light, my neck so bare! But one final glance in the mirror assured me that few would know me as Christine Daaé, Monsieur le Vicomte's intended. The house was very quiet, so it was relatively easy to sneak away out a rear passage intended for the servants.

I walked to the Right Bank with the newfound ease of disguise, fingering the odd key to the Rue Scribe entrance in my pocket.

**The lair was eerily quiet. **I listened hard, straining my ears for any noise. Of course that was silly, Erik could move feline-silent whenever he wished. But I did so anyway, before calling out softly in warning, "Erik?"

No response. And I was sure in my heart that he would have answered me. Heavy with disappointment, I was about to turn away and ascend back to the preparations for the premiere, but slowly I crept forward. I knew it was impolite to snoop about Erik's home, but the temptation was so great.

I brushed by the hearth that was always so cosy that I often I fell asleep, the bookshelf where I was wont to kneel, engrossed in a book. Passed the grand piano, the fascinating tables filled with the most advanced scientific equipment that I daren't touch … I paused by a desk that I hadn't noticed before.

It was unlike anything I had seen before--partially a writing desk, and yet also an artist's easel. Propped up against the support beams was a small canvas. I approached it curiously. I knew enough about art to see it was a glazed rendering in oils, the greyscale form washed with warm tones.

It was a portrait of me. An older image, but one that stood apart as significant. It was me many months ago, fallen fast asleep over the Queen Elissa gown from _Hannibal_. Little did I know that once awoken from my slumber that morning, my life would change in a most radical fashion. Erik had painted my face and the lush folds of velvet illuminated by a pair of mostly-burned candles. I studied it momentarily. Was this what he saw in me? The candlelight glimmered off the needle falling from my hand. My face was blank, the skin discoloured with acne scars; my hair a veritable rats' nest. The title could be _Ugly Girl with Unfinished Grown. _

But somehow it wasn't. It was rendered with exactiung precision. Every detail was rendered with tremendous care, from my sparse eyelashes to the light falling across my ear. And it seemed to be terribly ironic that Erik could command beauty so imperiously, who possessed so little himself.

_Except on the inside …_

I smiled a bit, and turned away. I had to hurry to reach my dressing room in time for my fitting with Catherine and Harvé.

**I paused by the stage. **Something was going on--was there a last-minute rehearsal? The orchestra was tuning, but voices filled the auditorium. I moved into the wings and squinted; then, remembering my disguise, I slunk closer, pulling down my hat. A thin whistle startled me. I stared. Raoul stood beside Andre, Firmin, and several strangers. I recognised their uniforms as those of the city fire officers. One of them bore a large, menacing rifle.

"_Comprenez-vous?" _The Chief Officer demanded of his men.

"Yes, sir!" they responded in unison, then scattered. One brushed past me, muttering, "Go home, boy. Danger tonight."

Each fire marshal took up a position by one of the many doors.

"Are you sure, this will work, Monsieur?" asked Firmin anxiously. The Fire Chief gave him a haughty look.

"Monsieur Firmin, as soon I blow this whistle, my men will close and secure each door. There will be no chance of escape. Monsieur le Vicomte?"

Raoul stirred, as though roused from a dream. God, it seemed as though he had aged many years in the hours since I spoken to him.

Firmin was asking him, "Will this work, Monsieur? Will Miss Daaé sing?"

Palpable sadness passed though him before he answered quietly, "She will be here." Finding a cover of cool confidence, he added, "Do not worry, Firmin. Monsieur Andre?"

"We're in your hands, Monsieur le Vicomte."

"Good." He nodded sharply, turning to the man with the rifle, who was descending into the orchestra pit. "You there. From your position, do you have a clear shot at that box?"

My heart sank as my eyes followed his pointing finger to Box Five. _Merde!_ I thought unceremoniously. _I needed more time! _

"Yes sir," the marksman responded emotionlessly.

"Good," Raoul said again, this time coldly, his sea-blue eyes glassy. "When the time comes, I want you to shoot."

"To injure?" asked the man, shifting his gun in his hands.

"No. To kill."

"Aye, sir."

And all our fates were sealed.

_**Don Juan Triumphant **_was a production the likes of which would not be seen for years to come.

I dressed in my fine rose-pink frock, at ease in its beautiful craftsmanship. Provided in the wardrobe was a pair of black leather boots with slender-yet-stable heels and hidden support for my weak ankles. Shocked at the dramatic cutting of my hair, Harvé had carefully pinned on my vast wig of perfect brunette ringlets, arranging the tendrils around my face. There was a red silk rose tucked tightly above my left ear. My makeup was caked on thick, kohl rimming my eyes and blood-coloured rouge upon my lips. I nervously adjusted my black, fringed shawl and waited for my next cue.

So far, things had come about smoothly, even though the audience was clearly not comfortable. They came to the Opera to be seen, not to be exposed to something that may make them think, much less about their baser instincts. Especially with armed police guarding each exit. I peered up at Box Three uneasily to see Raoul and the managers watching things with eagle eyes. Erik had not manifested yet, though I had no doubt he was listening. Perhaps from the proscenium arch or beneath the stage … I was deeply ambivalent. I was extremely proud of his opera, and sung each note to perfection. However, I prayed that he stay away, for his own safety. Just the thought of Erik getting shot because of me was utterly horrifying.

My cue! I did my best to skip innocently from the wing onto the stage, singing brightly,

_No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy!  
__No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!_

I let the last note quaver slightly, resonating far into the distance. Then, I put on my best hungry young girl act, roving the inn's table for something to eat, coming up with an apple. Piangi, as Don Juan, had just disappeared behind a draped alcove. I contemplated my fruit, trying to be a beguiling mix of innocent and sensual. Carolus Garron, as Passarino, asked, "Master?"

_Passarino …_

I froze, my teeth less than an inch from the apple. Despite a forced Spanish accent, I would recognise that silky voice anywhere, from the pearly gates to the mouth of hell.

_Go away, for the trap is set and waits for its prey …_

I couldn't look, but I heard, behind me, as a tall, cloaked figure emerged from the alcove, and shut the curtains behind him briskly.

As my heart pounded, I realised that my time was up.

This duet would not wait.


	25. The Point of No Return

* * *

_THE POINT OF NO RETURN_

* * *

**The music washed over me **until I forgot where I was, who I was … There was no opera, no theatre, no audience, no gendarmes … only the warmth, the seduction … 

**Aminta was a simple gypsy girl**; she had plucked up an apple from the inn's abandoned table and polished its mottled crimson skin on her ruffled silk skirt. She perched lightly upon the bench, legs splayed, and listened with wonder to the madly beautiful voice swelling behind her.

_You have come here  
__In pursuit of your deepest urge,  
__In pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent …_

_Silent…_

She rose rapidly from the table and skittered away with a flamenco flair. She toyed with the fruit, brushing its cool, smooth skin against her heated visage and slowly rolling it between her palms. The power of his voice seemed to be growing with each word, crackling in the charged air. The man was coming to her now, his immense cloak of black with its deep hood swaying gracefully. All she could see of him were his hands. Delicious illusion.

_I have brought you  
__That our passions may fuse and merge;  
__In your mind you__'__ve already succumbed to me,  
__Dropped all defences,  
__Completely succumbed to me._

_Now you are here with me,  
__No second thoughts,  
__You__'__ve decided …_

He snatched the apple from her hands just as she went to take a bite, and swung around behind her, proffering instead a heavy gold goblet from the other side. The acrid tang of wine filled her nostrils.

_Decided…_

She took the large chalice in both hands dreamily. The stranger ran his fingertips along her hand and wrist lightly as he relinquished the cup.

_Past the point of no return_--

Aminta looked away coquettishly. But she felt the back of his hand beneath her chin, guiding her face back to him. His index finger traced over the generous camber of her satiny ruby lips. She shivered, feeling a rush of heat surge through her core.

_No backward glances;  
__Our games of make believe are at an end.  
__Past all thought of __"__if__"__ or __"__when,__"_

At his behest, she drank the wine with relish, tilting her head back, showing her long white throat. She languidly wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and moved to turn away. Unexpectedly, he seized her wrist in a swift, vise-like grip, flexing his fingers on her flesh as though testing her strength.

_No use resisting_--  
_Abandon thought and let the dream descend._

He forced her backwards until she broke away to set down the cup and sit on the bench, the skirt spreading out like the rigid petals of a dried rose. But still he pursued her. She could feel him as he sat beside her on the opposite side of the bench and stroked the length of her arm. Coyly, she lifted her arms and pushed a few locks of her hair back from her neck.

_What raging fire shall flood the soul?  
__What rich desire unlocks it door?  
__What sweet seduction lies before us?_

He stood, and moved behind her. Her eyelids fluttered as he touched the back of her head, and traced the curves along the side of her face, and finally her sensitive throat and shoulders. Her lips parted in ecstasy, and she restrained a moan.

_Past the point of no return_--  
_The final threshold;_

He sat on her other side now, rubbing her arm through the thin pink sleeve of her dress, and cupped her hand in his own. Arching her back kittenishly, she blinked slowly, savouring his touch and the sensations it precipitated that pulsed through her body.

_What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn  
__Beyond the point of no return …_

With his fingers threaded through hers, he pushed her hand against her breast. Startled, she jumped up from her seat and shimmied away. He immediately turned away on he bench, his back hunched. Almost unaware, the music began to bubble up and flow from her.

_You have brought me  
__To that moment where words run dry,  
__To that moment where speech disappears into silence …_

_Silence…_

Aminta stood proudly with her hands on her hips, then leaped backward and pirouetted. She barely noticed as the man suddenly rose as though to interrupt her, then, with a shaky gesture, seemed to change his mind and sat back down.

_I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why,_

Aminta spread her arms wide above her head, then pressed the pads of her fingertips to her temples, dragging them downward, and clapped her hands together, the digits suggestively lacing.

_In my mind I__'__ve already imagined our bodies entwining,  
__Defenceless and silent.  
__And now I am here with you,_

She turned and stared at the cloaked man seated hunched over with his back to the table. Strange, but his fists seemed to be shaking as he viciously twisted the folds of his cloak.

_No second thoughts;  
__I__'__ve decided …_

She leaned sensuously across the table edge--the low neckline hinting at her ample bosom--and purred the next lingering word.

_Decided …_

_Past the point of no return,  
__No going back now.  
__Our passion-play has now at last begun;_

Their roles were reversed, and she was the seductress now. She sang throatily, her high notes jewel-like. She dipped down, laying her arms out behind her over the table edge, and rose once more.

_Past all thought right or wrong,  
__One final question:_

Aminta fiercely clawed her fingertips into his back. She felt the muscles clench as he stiffened against her touch. She raked her nails upward, reaching over his shoulders--simultaneously, he was raising his own hands. She pressed her palms to his, and their hands clenched together with an utterly violent force, digits intertwined.

_How long should we two wait before we__'__re one?_

Spreading her arms like a bird about to take flight, she never released his hands as she swooped her left arm around him and buried her face in his neck. Then, with the urgent grace of passion, she swept her right down to embrace him from behind.

_When will the blood begin to race,  
__The sleeping bud burst into bloom;  
__When will the flames at last consume u_--

Aminta pressed her cheek against the hooded man's, but something was very wrong; his face was cold and hard as bone beneath the black fabric …

**The spell was broken**. I was Christine once more, inundated with an onslaught of sheer panic. Gasping sharply, I caught a glimpse of the confused marksman in the orchestra pit. _Oh God! _I had to get Erik off the stage. I did the only thing I could think of. I bolted.

But Erik was far too quick and strong. Like a jungle predator, he grabbed my wrist; I struggled like a gazelle to pull him away from the loaded rifle so near to us. Dimly, I was aware that he had the wrong idea; he thought I was trying to run from him. He drew me back toward the centre of the stage as we finished the duet, he with command, and I with fear.

_Past the point of no return_--  
_The final threshold!  
__The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn;_

As the words rolled off my tongue, stricken thoughts raced in my head. Erik would never run from a fight, his pride was simply too great. A retreat in his own kingdom? He was afraid of _nothing …_

I felt a stab of cold as my mind took hold of that. The idea burst forth like a wave upon the shore.

There _was_ something Erik feared, something above all else.

_We__'__ve passed the point of no return …_

I seized the edge of his hood and flung it back. Erik stared at me briefly, his surprise mingling with intense apprehension, before he turned away, his cloak flourishing after him.

_Go_, I thought to him as hard as possible. Save yourself!

Erik stopped just before the curtained alcove. Something prevented him from escaping that way. He shot a few lightning-fast glances at the doors of the theatre, but we both knew they were all blocked. There was truly no going back. It was a bitter irony.

Adrenaline shot through my body when I saw the marksman shake off his perplexity and begin to load his weapon. But just as I was about to run to Erik, I saw that he was coming toward me. I carefully shifted my position to shield him from any gunfire. God help me, I didn't care if I was shot. As long as he wasn't hurt. My life would be an insignificant price to pay.

"Erik," I whispered urgently. "Please. You have to--"

"Christine …" he murmured tenderly. If he were at all aware of the danger, he showed no indication of it. Something else was on his mind. I looked up at him worriedly, my heart trembling at the haunting plea in his eyes. "You have given me so much already--your compassion, your voice, your smile … But there's only one more thing I would ask of you. I--You know my solitude keenly because it has been yours as well ... Please tell me you would share your life--your love--with me. May I ask you--what I mean to say is … Will you--be my wife?" By the time he reached the question, his voice had dropped to a bare whisper.

He pulled the onyx ring from his smallest finger and offered it to me, struggling to maintain composure. Hope, pride, the childlike terror of rejection … His expression alone was sufficient to warrant the answer, even had I intended to say no.

"Of course," I said softly, swallowing the lump of tears and disbelief in my throat. I lifted my left hand, and watched as he slipped the ring onto my fourth finger. The stone gleamed there, looking as though it had belonged there forever.

I lifted my face to his, dreading what I knew I had to do. I needed him to lean closer. He did, our lips so very near to each other.

My fingers found the edge of his white mask and wound themselves in the fibres of his dark wig.

_Forgive me_, I implored silently. Then I pulled.


	26. Down Once More

_

* * *

_

_DOWN ONCE MORE_

* * *

_Nadir Khan hesitated uneasily outside the Scribe Street entrance of the Palais Garnier. Some odd combination of instinct and a healthy dose of pessimism left the heavy clouds of foreboding crowding his vision. Erik hadn't met with him last week, a strange and unsettling breach of conduct. Even more unsettling was that the Persian had found Christine Daaé returning to him of her own accord. Such a strange girl! A plain, pale face, a wretched limp, and a voice like the first breath of spring in the final days of winter. Yes, her voice, even in the simple act of speaking, was as beautiful as a note drawn from a viola. Nadir regretted missing her triumph in _Hannibal_. He unlocked the gates and stealthily slipped from the streets of Paris into the subterranean realm of his old friend. It wasn't even a full minute when …_

"_Daroga." The voice--that _voice!--_materialised maddeningly out of thin air, as it always did._

_Nadir was about to launch a few good-natured jests, when he noticed by lantern-light that Erik's demeanour was different tonight; he seemed preoccupied; agitated, even. And the Persian could very well guess the source of his tension. _

"_How is Mademoiselle Daaé, Erik?" Nadir asked. "She was unwell last we met."_

"_Better," Erik replied succinctly. He shot a warning glance at Nadir that would have set many a man back several steps, but the Persian knew better. _

"_She is a sweet girl," he ventured further. "I only met her briefly, but she was polite and pleasant. But something was troubling her."_

"_What?"_

_Nadir sighed. He could see unmistakably that Christine Daaé cared deeply for Erik. He had let Erik's certainty convince him years ago that the masked man was unlovable. Could it be that someone finally dared to see beyond his horrifically-scarred face?_

"_Daroga," Erik began with difficulty, earnestly removing his hat. "Nadir, my friend; what am I to do? She has consumed my life… what life I had left in this crypt. A life as," he made a noise too sad to be snort, "a ghost! I am weary of being a Phantom. So tired of it. I want to move on, I want …" Nadir willed him on, hoping his friend would open up more, but Erik paused, and chose a disappointing noun. " … company."_

"_Alone is not alive, Erik. You're not a living corpse." Nadir searched for words to get through to his friend. "You need someone to make you aware of being alive."_

**Until death takes me**, I swear the darkest recesses of my mind shall be tormented by a singular sound.

Ripping away Erik's mask in one hand, and his sleek wig in the other, he recoiled straight away, screaming.

Not crying out or yelping or whimpering. And no stunned silence. Erik screamed with all the power of his extraordinary, agonised voice, as though under duress of fatal physical torture, or a child trapped by decades' worth of nightmares. And distantly, there was the buzz of the audience's horror.

I stood paralysed; numbly, I realised that I, too, was seeing the full extent of his deformity for the first time. Yes, I had seen the swollen twist of his lips, the deep ridges and pockmarks of his cheek, the sunken socket of his cataract-pale eye … But now I finally saw that he possessed very little real hair that sprouted in sparse grey wisps; but most noticeable and frightening was a round section where it seemed as though his scalp had been torn away--or never grown there in the first place--leaving only a membrane over bare bone and an unsightly mass of discoloured scar tissue.

A startlingly close gunshot made me practically leap straight in the air; it launched Erik into action as well. He grabbed my arm roughly, sweeping his cloak around me, and hurried me upstage, behind the flat, painted set pieces. Behind us, I could hear chaos erupting, others screaming … I thought I might have recognised Meg's shrill cry.

I stumbled in the dim lights backstage, pitching forward. Erik tightened his grip on my forearm, breaking my fall, but it _hurt. _Instinctively, I knew I'd bear bruises by tomorrow.

"Erik," I panted. "Wh-where are we going?"

Brutally, he answered, "Down once more."

No one else was around. Almost without even looking, he bent and opened a trap door in the floor that I had never seen before. It lay tucked behind many set tracks and was covered in dust--clearly he had not used it recently.

My heavy wig had come loose; I clawed at it until it dropped away. Erik took my newly-shorn head in stride, not even bothering to say anything. I'm sure he realised that it was not a big loss to me. It wasn't as though I actually had a head full of lush dark chocolate-coloured curls.

"Go," he said curtly, gesturing. I peered down nervously into the darkness until I saw a ladder that led down to a passage illuminated by a single lantern.

It scared me, but I set my jaw and determined not to protest. I was afraid, of course. Even though I had succeeded at getting Erik off stage and away from present danger, I wasn't sure at what cost. If I listened hard enough, I could still hear his anguished cries. Would he ever forgive me? I recalled the first time I had unmasked him, and that barely-restrained backhand he had nearly dealt me. Would he hurt me? I shut my eyes briefly. After what I just did to him, surely I deserved his wrath. I carefully descended the cold metal ladder until my feet touched the stone floor.

His immense dark cloak billowed like a breaking storm cloud as he jumped the last rung. Swooping like a hawk, he snatched up the flickering lantern, and took my hand brusquely. We spoke not a word until we reached the docked gondola, where the corridor opened up abruptly onto the lake. I gazed out on the bluish mist that lay floating atop the leaden waters, and suddenly realised I was no longer afraid.

Of course I could drown; I couldn't swim. But deep down, I knew no matter how angry he was with me, Erik would pull me back.

Erik hooked the lantern on the front curlicue of the bow and picked up the long pole. A hint of his old tenderness returned as he led me into the boat. I sat warily on the familiar pile of cushions and bowed my head shamefully as I felt him shove off.

I knew I had to speak first. I was surprised to find the courage to do so easily within reach.

"I'm sorry," I said, keeping my eyes downcast, groping for eloquence and finding little.

He continued propelling the gondola without acknowledging me for several moments. Then he said in a quenched voice, "Why did you do it, Christine? How could you?"

I turned around on the cushions and craned my neck to peer up at him, fighting the tears away. "God, Erik, I couldn't let them kill you! I wouldn't have cared if they shot me, but he--_they_ were going to murder you right there on the stage …I couldn't--_wouldn't_ let them--"

I braced myself in case he would be angry, but instead he gave a dusty laugh and said, "Why not? I'm sure they would all get along happily without me."

"I wouldn't," I blurted. "I--"

I gasped as the portcullis rumbled to life before us.

**I knew something was different **in the House Beyond the Lake the minute I stepped into it. It took a few quick surveys before I realised that the covered mirror frame--which held the bizarre mannequin of myself--was uncovered and empty. The figure itself, unclothed, lay limply across Erik's black stone chair. Divested, it revealed its inner scaffolding of metal bands and mechanical joints. It was disturbing. I backed away from Erik, watching him guardedly. He shrugged away his costume cloak, revealing his immaculate nightly evening suit. It looked disjointed in its formality juxtaposed against Erik's exposed face and insubstantial greyish hair.

I slipped away quietly into my own bedchamber, as neat as I had left it, but laid out lovingly upon the bed was the glorious wedding gown. I shut the door behind me gently, and tentatively approached the garment. There was the ruched satin bodice buttoned from the lace-trimmed scoop neckline to its dropped double princess waist. From that deep, double triangle emerged asymmetrical eyelet ruffles that fell diagonally like a cyclone, covered in the back by an elegant waterfall bustle.

I lifted my hand as though to cover my mouth, before I saw a glint reflecting the lamplight.

The ring. _Erik's_ ring. Here was the ring and the gown, and … here was the bride.

Shedding my costume, I stepped into the dress, raising the bodice and slipping my arms into its elbow-length sleeves. I patiently fastened the gown, adjusting its large bustle, and straightened the long button placket down the front. I felt no need to change out of my high black boots, so I summoned a long breath and opened the door. I gathered up my skirts and walked back out to the main chamber.

Erik turned at the sound of my uneven footsteps. Gathered in his hands was the long, snowy veil. He stared. And quite suddenly, the sight of that length of tulle terrified me.

"Oh God," I whispered. "I can't do this. Please, Erik…"

"Christine …" He looked bitter … resigned. Erik was expecting this sort of reaction. This _rejection_.

"Erik--it's not what you think. I was never meant to be a wife. What has ever come of marriage, anyway? Misery, doubts, and betrayal. What do you get?"

"Someone." A single, charged word was all that Erik uttered, still refusing eye contact. Abruptly, he changed subjects, his expression distant, almost imperceptibly rocking back and forth. "Since the day I was born, this face has denied me love, even from my own mother."

For some reason, that struck a chord in me. My memories of my mother were all so vague and beautiful, but were they ever warm or loving?

That troubled me briefly, but much less so than Erik's words. "How appalling! Erik, that was utterly heartless of her. She should have cherished you, _regardless_ of your face."

"Do you think so?" He finally looked at me, his eyes haunted.

"_Yes_," I replied vehemently. "Erik, my father told me every day that he loved me no matter how I looked or moved. Anything less is horrible." I moved toward him and laid my hand across his wrist gently.

He dipped his chin slightly and said quietly, "You accepted my proposal, Christine."

I bit my lip and answered evenly, "That I did."

Could I vow fidelity forever to this man? I asked myself seriously. This was a decision I needed to make for myself, even with Erik watching me steadily. A part of me was still terrified of the commitment, and screamed in protest against losing my hard-earned independence. But another part asked seriously, what did I have left in my former life worth clinging to? Really, there was nothing to rejoice in. An oppressively lonely flat, an empty occupation, no real happiness anywhere.

Slowly, carefully, I took the wedding veil from him and placed it upon my head, settling the arrangement of white silk flowers among my short-cropped tresses.

A faint splashing interrupted me. Beyond the portcullis, there was sudden movement.

"Ah, my dear," Erik said icily, breaking out of his sad, pensive reverie. "I was unaware that we had invited company!"

"Raoul!" I yelped, appalled. I ran to him, and immediately accosted him with, "What are you doing here?"

"What--?" he stammered, brow raised in surprise. He was clearly expecting me to embrace him with relief. I saw him look me up and down, taking in my ivory wedding gown and bouquet of white roses, my cropped hair and long tulle veil. "You--your hair, Christine! And--and what are you wearing?"

"Don't ask questions," I said, low and hurried, "just go--get out of here, Raoul, and never look back!"

I tossed away the bouquet charily, and gripped the cold metal bars. Raoul touched my hands from the other side. I noticed dimly that his fine dress shirt was ripped down the front, and he was dripping wet. Good Lord, had he _swam_ here?

He ignored my order to leave, and instead clenched his jaw tightly, his eyes darkening. "My God--has he _hurt_ you, Christine?"

"No!" I answered vehemently. "But you have to--" Suddenly, the portcullis began to rise. Raoul ducked hastily under the edge and reached to embrace me. I wriggled out of his arms and stepped backward.

At the same time, he was saying, "I'm taking you with me, away from this madhouse--"

A low, silky voice interrupted us. "Monsieur you are most unfashionably late. And I'm afraid that no more guests shall be allowed to attend."

"Monster," Raoul growled. "Let her go! Damn you to bloody Hell if you've hurt her."

"Raoul!" I yelped, alarmed. "Don't!"

I turned to find Erik and implore him to let Raoul out, but he seemed to have melted away into the leering shadows around us. Suddenly, he appeared, looming up behind Raoul, looping a red noose around his throat. Raoul let out a choking cry as the end of the rope rose magically and held him taut. He rasped my name.

"Why are you doing this?!" I demanded shrilly.

"I won't abide his presence, Christine!" Erik shouted, grabbing my shoulders and giving me a tight shake. I pulled away violently, glaring at him. "He tempts you back to the world above. You _will_ be my wife, or he dies."

"Erik, listen to me," I said severely, adding weight to each word, "If you kill him, I _swear_ that I will _hate_ you the rest of my days."

He flinched, and I continued my tirade. "How dare you? Do you truly not respect me enough to let me make a fair decision? I'm a woman of my word! You know that!"

Erik paced from the organ to his black stone throne and sat tiredly. I knew Raoul was gasping out his protests, but somehow, his presence vanished as I pursued Erik.

He rounded on me. "Oh? And yet you wore his ring next to your heart! You were so happy at the prospect of becoming a vicomtesse!" He produced the ring in question, and tossed it into the air. He caught it and pocketed it.

"Happy?" I almost laughed, but it came out as more of a sob. "I nearly took my own life in despair!"

"What?" Both men stopped. Raoul gazed at me with unhappily dawning realisation; and Erik with naked empathy and fierce protectiveness.

I slowly slipped the veil from my head and pressed my hands to my face. Exhausted, I dropped to my knees beside his seat. "God, Erik, this travesty needs to end."

"Then make your choice," Erik said softly, rising and turning away, his shoulders slumped. Choose between light and dark? No, I knew better. We were all composed of both illumination and shadow. We needed _both_, we needed balance, contrast … _harmony_.

I stared at Erik's back, the fine diamond-patterned wool that made up his beautifully-shaped tailcoat. And it felt as though a wave had swept over me. I _was _drowning, but it was no evil. This wave chased away my fear, my regrets, my final, tremulous uncertainties …

I loved Erik. No one else.

He was still full of anger and despair, his soul wrapped in ice; he was often cold, arrogant, ruthless, and cynical; he was brilliant, driven, and passionate. He bore a grave grudge against the world and humanity. He lived in exile, immersed in self-loathing and isolation.

But still I loved him. There was light lying dormant in him, and I held the spark to ignite it. I would give my life for him, and follow him to the ends of the earth. I would lay down in fire, imbibe poison, and tear my heart to pieces should he ask me to. He had hurt me too deep and forced me to care.

I rose from the floor and slowly approached him, laying my hand lightly on Erik's back. The touch startled him, and he spun around. In only a fraction of a second, I fingered the velvet lapels of his dress coat and looked up hesitantly into his incredulous mismatched eyes. That second seemed to stretch out at a terrifyingly slow pace; the momentum as we drew closer was terribly sluggish. And then we collided.

Wrapping my arms around his waist, I touched my lips to his, surprised at their warmth. Pressing my body close to his, I rose on tiptoes and gently turned the touch into a kiss. It was like discovering a long-lost piece of myself. But I felt with regret that he wouldn't touch me. Erik's kiss was shy, as though fearful of breaking something precious. I drew back only slightly and embraced him, putting my hands about his shoulders, at the back of his neck.

Near his ear, I whispered softly, "Don't be afraid. You're not alone anymore."

I kissed him deeply once more, gently drawing my hands across his face. A fine tremor had overtaken him, but at last I felt his arms around me timorously, a hand threaded in the thick pile of my shorn hair, the other at the small of my back. My fingertips tenderly traced the deep furrows of his cheek, the nearly-exposed bone of his brow, and his own hair, as soft and fine as a kitten's fur.

I hated to break from him, but we were both short of breath.

"I'm staying with you," I said firmly.

"I couldn't possibly ask you to--"

"It's my decision. My choice." I touched his scarred face. "And I choose to stay."

"Are you certain, Christine?" Erik asked quietly. "I will not hold you prisoner. You are free to leave me," he managed to say, swallowing hard, "if you so wish."

I tilted my head and gazed at him steadily. "Oh Erik … "

"Christine," he said softly. His bravura voice had never sounded so exquisite, so gracefully nuanced. "I love you."

"And I love you," I said ardently. Believe it, I willed him.

I cast a look at Raoul, who appeared numbly shocked. Looking back at Erik, I said quietly, "Let him go. He's no threat."

Erik blinked. He hesitated, fighting his instincts; then, he relented, "Very well. Take a candlestick and burn the thread at the end of the rope." I nodded, then reached shyly into his coat pocket and removed the ruby ring.

I reluctantly separated from Erik and approached my childhood best friend, the little boy who helped me build the tallest sand castles and chased me around the silky dunes of Bretagne. I could almost hear the gulls calling high above, and the surf whispering, feel the summery sea breeze. The thread that had held him broke with a flicker.

"Christine," began Raoul, absently rubbing his neck as he stared at me in utter disbelief. "You cannot be serious--"

"I am," I cut him off indignantly. Then, I softened my tone. "Raoul, my dear friend, please try to understand. I care for you, I truly do; but I don't love you. We do not belong together."

"But I lo--"

"No," I said sharply. "You love a memory of our shared past. And you love what I could be, not what I am. You would like to try to turn me into something perfect. Something I _cannot _be. For my sake, move on." I turned over the jewelled engagement ring in my hand. "I'm so sorry." I held out the ring to him at arm's length. "This is yours."

He hesitated a long moment, searching my face. The simple truth he had been denying all this time broke upon him at last. A measure of tension drained away as he gently took the ring, and clasped my hand with a benevolent grip. The portcullis groaned to life behind us, and we broke contact for the last time.

He ducked beneath it, and began to walk away, but abruptly stopped and turned back. "Christine!"

"Raoul?" I prayed he was not so stubborn as to change his mind.

But instead all he did was dip his chin in a nod, his sea-coloured eyes heart-rending. "I--I wish you only the best, Christine. Good luck to you."

"And to you," I said, returning his nod. "Good-bye, Raoul."

He bravely attempted a watery smile before returning to his lonely trek back up. My eyes misted at a memory: Raoul as a young boy, brandishing a wooden sword as he dashed across the sands of Perros-Guirec, guarding our clumsy sand palace. It was liberating to know that he was safe but no longer pursuing me. I immediately turned my attention back to Erik, who was watching the portcullis descend with the eye of a master mechanic.

I hobbled toward him, and he hastily took my hand in both of his. He squeezed my palm as though testing if I were an illusion, and kissed my rough knuckles tenderly. And before I knew what was happening, we were in each others' arms, both stricken with weeping. I with sniffles and gasps, he with long-repressed sobs. Two refugees from the cruelty of the world, together at last. Two incomplete puzzles, finding the missing pieces in each other. The sense of fulfilment was indescribable. I dwelt on how I had swallowed the idea that I would never be able to fall in love and have the emotion returned. All the pain I had nursed inside for so many years; all that vanity and bitterness, those endless tears and thick-skinned pride … was suddenly nothing but folly. It felt good that Erik ultimately trusted me enough to show such emotion, even in a torrent. At length, I kissed his forehead, and he nuzzled the crook of my neck and shoulder.

"Christine," he said, breaking the silence.

"Hm?"

"Your beautiful gown is all wet now."

"It'll dry," I answered. "And I won't shrink."

He actually laughed, no longer divinely imperious or cruelly mocking, but a good, true laugh. A prelude to happiness. I pressed my round nose to his crooked and half-fused one, and we kissed with great tranquillity now, breaking to lean our foreheads together.

"I … never thought I would have this," he whispered, barely a sound. "That I would have _you_. Everything seems right, everything seems possible. You've taught me something I never knew. "

"Oh?"

"I'm someone to be loved."

I laughed softly; he cupped my face in both his hands as I blushed. I couldn't resist smiling as I said, "It's as though you've stolen my very words."

Suddenly, distant voices filtered in from above us. Worried, I touched Erik's shoulder. "They're coming for us! What shall we do?"

He slowly looked the portcullis up and down, the learned cogs in his head working. At length he said, "We have to leave. For good."

"For good?" I repeated incredulously. "But--Erik, what of your home, and--and all your wonderful things--"

"All worthless to me now," he said gently, "since I have your love, Christine."

I put my arms around him again, and answered, "That you do."

He kissed the top of my head and murmured, "Will you come with me?"

I drew back and nodded. "Anywhere you go."

**Meg Giry was anxious. **She felt an intense sting of regret for the distance that had sprung up between herself and her surrogate sister over the past months. Sure, Christine could have written more often, but she was set to become a Vicomtesse! She would be a member of the aristocracy; she would have no time nor need for childhood friends from the _theatre_, of all places. Meg allowed herself to admit she was somewhat jealous; wasn't _she_ pretty and talented? While Christine had always been sweet-natured, mystifyingly insightful, and quietly distant, she was far from beautiful. Meg bit her lip guiltily, returning her thoughts to the welfare of her dear friend. Raoul de Chagny had gone after them, led by her mother, but no one had seen or heard from he or Christine yet.

Meg had shed her frilly gypsy prostitute costume, and dressed in a young stagehand's castoffs of sturdy, neutral colours--fitted trousers, slightly-large riding boots, a blouse and a waistcoat, and bound up her golden curls in a snood. She clambered nimbly down the vast iron portcullis. She was the first of the mob to reach the strange and mysterious lair of the Phantom.

_Maman_ had finally revealed some things to her about the man, for it turns out, he was nothing more than a man. Yet even her knowledge of Erik was limited. She knew not his origins, his surname, nor his distant history. Only that he dwelt here, a terribly disfigured genius, five stories beneath the surface of the earth, asking for a monthly salary and occasionally causing fantastical mischief. The latter, however, had tapered off soon after Christine settled into her position at the Opéra. Why hadn't Meg noticed that? How secretive Christine began to act? How her intrinsic despondency seemed ameliorated?

Useless, Meg thought to herself, gritting her teeth. All is clear in hindsight.

Freeing her tresses from the snood, the gracile ballerina walked carefully in her borrowed boots, gazing around in wonder before calling timidly, "Hello?"

There was no answer. Meg continued exploring warily before something familiar caught her eye. Among the objects, instruments, and furniture of a strange and hidden home, was a flash of silvery metal. Christine's unpleasant leg braces lay neglected on the ground near a massive black stone chair. And upon the seat lay a discarded white mask.

Meg hurried over and dropped to her knees. She slumped briefly; Christine wasn't fond of wearing them, but she wouldn't really go too far without them.

The blonde suddenly lifted her head in revelation. Christine wouldn't leave her braces _unless she no longer needed them_.

And that meant … the mask …

Meg gingerly picked it up, watching the light play on its polished surface. And she understood; these objects left behind weren't mere items … but cages that had trammelled two people in solitude and darkness.

Meg tipped her face up to prevent her tears from falling, and drew a long breath. She would miss Christine very much, but was content to know that she--and he--were finally free.

* * *

_This story has been more than two years in the making. I can't believe it. __I'm a bit sad to leave these characters and places, but I'm so glad that people have enjoyed this fic. I wanted to say __**thank you so much **__to all my readers; I seriously couldn't have finished without your support! I'd love to hear from you, now at the end of this long road! Merci! _


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